The Past Redeemed
by Sue
Summary: Sequel to the episode Sins of the Past. Chris and Vin travel to Tascosa to try and clear Vin's name, unaware that they are being followed by Eli Joe's gang; a hurt and angry Ezra decides to leave Four Corners.
1. Default Chapter Title

TITLE: The Past Redeemed  
  
AUTHOR: Sue  
  
EMAIL: DelanySis1@aol.com  
  
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated! Please send comments and suggestion to the above address. Thank you!!  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters of The Magnificent Seven belong to Trilogy, MGM and CBS. I am making no money from their use. No kidding!!  
  
WARNINGS/RATING: PG-13 for rough language, violence and mild sexual situations (nothing graphic)  
  
COMMENTS: This story is a sequel to the second-season episode SINS OF THE PAST. I've tried to write it so that you can follow it even if you haven't seen the episode, but if you'd like more information, there are many websites out there which contain plot synopses and scripts, including:  
  
www.magnificent7.com  
www.themagnificent7.com  
www.themagnificentseven.com  
  
I owe many people a BIG debt of thanks for helping me get this story written!! My sister Sarah helped me iron out quite a few plot details and kept things on track. Thanks, Sis!!  
  
I also had some excellent beta readers who kept an eye on my spelling and writing! I'm deeply obliged to Judy for helping me fix my atrocious typing, and to Carla, Cat, Chris, and Kathy for their unwavering aid in mending plot holes and letting me know when things did and didn't look okay!! You pards are all wonderful, and I couldn't have done this fic without you!!  
  
The name of Ezra's horse Chaucer was created by Kristen. Thanks, Kristen!!  
  
This is a story about friendship, trust, and betrayal, and contains healthy doses of Ezra, Vin and Chris angst, as well as a good number of owies. I hope you all enjoy it!! Thanks for reading!  
  
Sue :)  
EBB, etc.  
  
  
  
THE PAST REDEEMED  
  
  
Chris Larabee sat on the edge of his bed, heedless of the morning sun which streamed through the open window of his sparse rented room. He sat alone, bent over, hands clasped, his green eyes lost in deep, painful contemplation as he stared at the wall.  
  
You've got to stop this bull, he told himself sternly. After all the excitement of the past few days, they'll be looking to you to hold things together. The Judge is counting on you.  
  
A bitter voice from Chris's soul replied that maybe he didn't want to be counted on anymore. Not if things ended up like this.  
  
Unbidden, the scene replayed itself in his mind, the same nightmarish image which had been haunting his waking and sleeping hours since it had happened. Vin Tanner, his partner, the one man in the world he'd truly call his brother, chasing Eli Joe across the rooftops of Four Corners. Vin had been framed for murder by Eli Joe, and the bank robber and murderer was the only man alive who could clear Vin's name. And Chris was behind Vin, trying to help him.  
  
Then Chris had lost them both; when he found them again, Eli was dangling above the ground, with only his grasp on Vin's arm between life and a plummet to the grave. For a moment, Chris had allowed himself to feel relief; it was over, they could take Eli to Tascosa and clear Vin's name, and his brother would be free.  
  
There was a flash; Eli was holding a knife, poised to run it through Vin's gut. And Chris, flooded with anger and dread, had lifted his gun and protected his friend the only way he felt he could.  
  
He saw Vin jump at the shot, saw Eli start as well. Chris felt his heart scream with frustration when he saw Eli fall backwards over the edge of the roof. He didn't have to look to know Vin's one hope of freedom was dead.  
  
And Chris was responsible.  
  
Chris covered his face with his hands, rubbing it as if to erase the image from his tired mind. He knew Vin didn't blame him, he was only trying to save the tracker's life. Clearing Vin's name would mean nothing if there was no living body to hang it on.   
  
But there had been a moment, after Eli's fall, when Vin had turned to Chris, when there was no understanding on Vin's face. The look which had passed between the two then was not one of forgiveness; it was one of shock and frustration, of Vin realizing that his only hope of being free was gone, and his closest friend had caused its extinction. It was a look which had not been erased from Chris's mind for almost a week. A look almost of betrayal. Later, of course, Vin had said he knew why Chris had done it; but Chris suspected – feared – that the first reaction was a more accurate reflection of what the tracker truly felt.  
  
Chris ran his hands through his short blonde hair and stood, feeling the effects of several nights of bad sleep burning its way through his weary body. Eli was dead, and Chris had shot him, without really thinking about the consequences. It was an old and well-honed reflex, one which had saved his life a hundred times during his wild years, the days when he'd kill a man for looking at him crooked, when the gunfights and the whiskey were all that mattered because they were the only things that took away the pain.  
  
Chris shuddered at the memory of that time, after his wife Sarah and son Adam had been murdered, when all he did was wander the territory picking fights and drinking. It was then that he'd attained his reputation, when he had learned to draw fast and aim true so that he could survive to the next gunfight, the next bottle. He could see now the blank despair of those years, the burning rage which had formed him into a lonely, hard drifter with no ties or cares beyond the moment.  
  
Then he'd found this town, and this job, not really because he was looking for it. He'd never thought that simple five-dollar job protecting a Seminole village would unite him with six men he'd now consider allies and even friends. If anybody had told him there would be a time when he didn't need to get drunk, didn't feel that horrible emptiness burning through his soul, he would never have believed them. But lately, things had been better, and he hoped the old days of killing without thought, of using his gun to solve every problem were behind him.  
  
Now he wasn't so sure.  
  
He rose, walking across the room to where his gun belt lay in the dim reflected morning light. One fingertip brushed the metal barrel of his gun, feeling its cold, deadly metal. His face was pale and grim as agonizing questions flew through his troubled mind.  
  
*Was there another way to save Vin?* he wondered to himself. *Did I even try to stop myself from shooting Eli Joe? Or has this become second nature to me, to the point where I can't control it?*  
  
*Is this still who I am?*  
  
He saw no answers in the breaking day, and expected none soon. But as Chris slowly shaved and dressed himself, his eyes seldom strayed from the guns, and his mind continued to play out the dreaded thought that, like Vin, he might never be free of his past.  
  
  
The more Ezra thought about what had happened, the angrier he became.  
  
Time had not worked its healing power on the gambler's feelings-it had been four days since his mother Maude Standish had swept into the small frontier town of Four Corners, driven his newly opened saloon into bankruptcy, bought the establishment herself, and swept back out again. Strangely enough, it felt like ages since Ezra had watched his fondly held and briefly realized dream of saloon ownership get crushed into dust-but maybe that was what slow-burning rage did to a person.  
  
As the lean young man slouched in the early morning sunshine gleaming across the porch of the jail, slowly sipping his morning coffee, he continued to mull over his situation. What his mother had done was bad enough-how she could buy a competing hotel and drive her own son into despairing insolvency and then justify her actions as merely keeping him sharp was something even Ezra's nimble mind could not fathom. He had been angry at her before for her callous, occasionally cruel treatment of him, but he had a feeling he would never be able to forgive her for this.  
  
But still – still, he should have expected it. Maude was still Maude, mother or not, and she rarely passed up a chance to better someone and prove her superiority, even if it was her own son who got ground into the dirt. Her behavior was despicable and inexplicable but not shocking, for her.   
  
His friends, on the other hand –  
  
Ezra coughed at the sudden tightness in his throat and sat up abruptly, rubbing his eyes wearily with one hand. He'd done it again, called them friends when they had clearly proven themselves to be nothing of the kind. The other men who'd been hired along with Ezra to protect Four Corners had worked well together these past months, faced threats as a solid team, watching each other's back. And Ezra, who'd wandered all of his life never daring to call any place home, any man friend, had foolishly begun to believe that maybe that was over now. Here was a place he belonged, a group of men he could respect.  
  
Gone, now. All gone, and all he had left were the bitter memories of his comrades turning their backs on him and going to Maude's hotel to drink and gamble, instead of Ezra's. Maude had driven his business into the ground, but of all the empty seats in Ezra's saloon at the end, there were six which really hurt.  
  
Well, that wasn't entirely fair, Ezra thought as he squinted up the street. Chris Larabee, their black-clad leader, had been too busy helping to save their comrade Vin Tanner from an undeserved hangman's noose to really be involved in what happened to Ezra, and Vin had been even busier trying to avoid getting hung for a murder he didn't commit. Now Vin was safe, but Eli Joe, the man who had committed the murders, was dead, and Vin had new worries.   
  
And Buck Wilmington's gallivanting with the ladies had caught up with him and he had spent the whole time dealing with a pregnant girlfriend whose child ultimately was proven not to be his. So, Chris and Vin and Buck were let off the hook, at least a bit. There were much more appropriate targets for Ezra's anger.  
  
Of the three men left-Nathan Jackson, Josiah Sanchez and JD Dunne-Ezra was definitely the most angry at Nathan. Ever since they'd met, the former slave and healer had acted as Ezra's self-appointed conscience. And, too, he had always rigidly corrected people whenever they called him a doctor. He wasn't a doctor, he'd always say; he just wanted to help folks. Ezra was often annoyed at his meddling, but had to admire his honesty; Ezra knew that if it had been him, he would have been milking people's credulity to the last penny. Nathan's humanity and compassion in the light of his horrible past had earned him Ezra's grudging respect, and he had even shown the gambler some unprecedented kindness.  
  
But now Ezra knew the truth, which had glared out at him the minute he walked into Maude's hotel and saw the sign proclaiming the presence of Dr. Jackson-Dr., for God's sake-on the premises. How Maude ever talked him into it, Ezra didn't know or care. All he knew was, Nathan was a hypocrite who was just as willing as anyone else to tell a lie for a dollar. Ever since Maude had left town, Nathan had left the hotel and moved back into his humble third-floor clinic; he had also been avoiding Ezra. Which was fine with Ezra, who had lost all respect for the healer. Kindness, it seemed, did not guarantee friendship.  
  
And Josiah! Ezra knew the former preacher was smitten with Maude, but Ezra was surprised his mother was spending any time with the penniless holy man. Until he realized that she just wanted to show him how powerful she was, how helpless Ezra was, and how superficial his friendship with the other men was. And Josiah had allowed himself to be used, seemed happy about it in fact, and completely ignorant of Ezra's pain. It angered Ezra that he couldn't even rely on the help of a supposed man of God.   
  
JD. Ezra stretched himself out again, trying to work out the soreness n his muscles from another night of lousy sleep as he considered the young man. True, JD was still barely out of short pants, and he was no match for Maude's wiles, so Ezra shouldn't have been surprised to see him gambling his savings away in Maude's opulent casino, lured in by her promises of sure fire systems and easy money. But – although Ezra would never admit it – JD had also seemed to be more mindful than the others of Ezra, hanging around him more and genuinely enjoying his company. Ezra had enjoyed having JD around; he had been like a cheerfully annoying younger brother.  
  
Now, Ezra could only try to ignore the hurt as JD blithely forgot all about helping out Ezra's business in the bright glare of Maude's promises. JD, apparently, could be bought, leaving the gambler disappointed; he'd felt for sure he could at least count on JD's support. The boy supported everybody else; Ezra recalled how impressed he was when JD faced down the corrupt marshal Yates and tried to stop him from taking Vin. They had all been there, ready to help Vin if they could.  
  
Where had they been when Ezra needed them?  
  
Without really meaning to, Ezra found himself resenting Vin, simply because it seemed that he enjoyed the friendship the men denied to Ezra.  
  
He allowed his gaze to drift up the street, though he wished he hadn't. There they were, the saloon-his saloon-and the hotel, across from each other. His gut clenched when he recalled how happy he'd been when he bought the saloon; all of his dreams, so long fought and saved for, were finally going to come true. Then, in the space of a few days, it was all over; his mother was gone, his dreams and money were gone, and his friends had turned into mere business associates. Ezra turned his gaze away; he used to go to the saloon and the hotel every day to dine and gamble, but now he could not bear to even look at them.  
  
Dammit, he thought, shaking himself. He hated this burning self-pity he was wallowing in. The pain was too much to bear, firmly convincing him that he'd been right all along to be closed and solitary, that he'd have to be more careful in the future. He'd been careless this time, and look what happened. Here he was, broke.  
  
A small thought nudged itself into view, that worse than the monetary loss was the betrayal of the tiny hope that just maybe he'd been wrong about the world, and his solitary place in it. For just a moment he'd allowed himself to believe that maybe there was another way to go, a brighter path than the one he'd been treading all his life. But the men who had convinced him of this had proven themselves to be false, and something was trying to tell him that it was the pain of that realization which seared the worst.  
  
But Ezra quickly pushed that thought aside, unwilling to admit this to himself. To do this, he'd have to realize that he was weak enough to think he'd ever need anybody. He'd learned his lesson: Ezra Standish didn't need anyone. Friendship only caused pain.  
  
Ezra stood and adjusted his red jacket; the time was past for brooding, although he knew the anger would not subside for a long time. It was time for action.  
  
Ezra Standish did not stay where he was not wanted.  
  
  
The dust danced in the hot sun as the lone rider tore across the desert plain towards the rocky cliffs on the horizon. No mercy was shown to the gaunt, panting horse or the filthy, gruff-looking man who rode it; both creatures were drenched in sweat and dust as they raced to the coolness of the shadows just ahead.  
  
As they closed in, a bullet suddenly tore the air close to the man's head. He looked up, his eyes furious.  
  
"Dammit, Gray, it's Hanley! I got word on Yates!"  
  
There was an embarrassed pause, then a fearful voice said from among the rocks, "Sorry, Boss! Thought you was law!"  
  
The man reined in at the base of the cliffs and glared up into its rock-strewn heights; somewhere in there, he knew, was a cave, a dark, cool cave full of outlaws as hard as he was.  
  
Outlaws who had, until recently, followed Eli Joe.  
  
As Hanley dismounted, a thin figure clad in a worn Confederate jacket appeared above him amid the huge, yellow-white rocks, toting a long rifle. Hanley glared at him.  
  
"Damn near took my head off, Gray!"  
  
"Said I was sorry!" was the defensive reply as the older man scratched the dirty gray stubble of his loose, fleshy face. "Been purty nervous since Joe got killed, y'know."  
  
Hanley sighed as he began to climb the cliff. "Yeah, I know."  
  
After a few moments he entered the cave, a shallow recess lit by the reflection of the blazing sun and a small fire in the floor, over which some unidentifiable food was roasting.   
  
Standing or slouching around the fire were four dirty, glowering figures, all clad in worn clothing showing much abuse. The most readily noticeable was a large, muscular men clad in torn Army pants and a tattered jacket thrown over the remains of a striped convict's shirt. His head was clean-shaven, but his chin and mouth were hidden behind a prodigious growth of thick, dark beard.   
  
On a rock nearby reclined a glowering young man clad in well-worn buckskin, his handsome face disfigured by a long scar across his right cheek. The youth's long, filthy blonde hair gleamed dully in the firelight, and he seemed to be giving most of his attention to the ornate Indian knife he was sharpening. His actions were graceful and deliberate, his blue eyes bright and completely focused on his task. There was a fierce, unsettled light flickering in their blue depths, at variance with the blank expression on his face.  
  
Tending to a small stack of firearms in the corner of the cave was another young man, slightly older, with thick black hair neatly trimmed, clad in clothing once dapper but now running to seed. Perched on his head was a battered silk top hat, cocked at an angle which seemed at once jaunty and mildly threatening. He manipulated the weapons with remarkable skill, cleaning, repairing and loading them with the careful touch of a practiced killer.  
  
The final occupant of the cave crouched by the fire, poking the roast to see if it was done yet. The slim figure was just as filthy, just as ragged as the others, and the expression it wore was just as deadly, the eyes just as dull with jaded anger. The only real difference between this outlaw and the others was the fact that it was a girl, no older than sixteen, her brown hair cut short to an inch of her scalp, her face already lined with care and hate. Like the others, she turned to watch Hanley as he came in, her brown eyes intense and grim.  
  
Hanley stood panting for a moment, meeting all of their eyes.  
  
"They're takin' Yates in," he finally said, his voice low and angry. The others were still for a moment, then stirred, clutching their weapons.  
  
"We ain't gonna let em, are we?" cried the gun-cleaning dandy.  
  
"If he fingers us as part of Joe's gang, they'll send the Goddamned army after us!" the girl snarled, jumping to her feet.  
  
"I bet he'd do it just to save his neck," the large man in convict's clothes exclaimed.  
  
The knife-wielding youth sat on his rock, and said nothing, watching them all with calm detachment.  
  
Hanley closed his eyes in frustration. "Will you idiots shut the hell up!" he bellowed. When the clamor subsided, he opened his eyes again, sweeping them all with a furious glare. "Course they ain't gonna get away with it. We just gotta plan it, that's all."  
  
He moved into the circle, glowing orange in the flickering light of the cook fire. "When we find out where they're takin' him and who'll be guardin' him, Yates won't be able to tell nobody nothin'. Gray an' me'll go into town an' see what we can figger out."  
  
Gray nodded, swinging the rifle over his shoulder.  
  
"What I can't see," said the large man, walking up next to Hanley, "is why they waited this long t'move im. They had im for almost a week."  
  
"Hell, who cares bout that?" Hanley grunted. "Got their own reasons. Maybe they're beatin' the hell out of him to save us the trouble. Wouldn't be surprised, with Chris Larabee in charge. But their reasons won't count for shit when we get through with Yates, and whoever's unlucky enough to be ridin' with him."   
  
  
"I sure wish we didn't have to take Yates to Tascosa so soon."  
  
JD's glum voice could barely be heard above the din in the saloon as he, Josiah and Nathan sat eating breakfast amid the bustling early-morning crowd.   
  
"Sooner we get 'im there, the sooner Vin might be a free man, JD," Nathan pointed out as he unfolded his napkin. "Chris don't want Vin goin' by himself, an' I don't blame im. Who knows how many of Eli Joe's men are still around?"  
  
"An' we don't want Yates thinkin' he's got any chance of runnin' off," Josiah added, smoothing back his gray-black mustache before sipping his coffee. "He won't try anything with five pairs of eyes watchin' im."  
  
JD sighed sadly. "Well, I know how important it is t'get Yates to Tascosa so's he can clear Vin's name, but I was sorta hopin' to stay in town this week."   
  
Josiah shrugged as he lifted a steaming cup of coffee to his lips. "I dunno, things've been pretty dull round here lately."  
  
"That's fine with me," Nathan observed, as the healer dug into his plate of eggs. "After spendin' all my time patchin' you men up, I could use a little dull for a while."  
  
"Well, it ain't dull for me!" JD declared, running one hand through his long black hair in frustration. "Casey an' I were goin' to attend that travelin' minstrel show that's comin' Saturday."  
  
Nathan winced. "That show ain't real, JD. Just a bunch of white men in blackface actin' like fools."  
  
"You wanna hear some fine Southern singin', just ask Nathan," Josiah smiled as he sat back with his coffee. Nathan chuckled.  
  
Josiah sat up. "Take heart, JD. Next show that comes through, I'll get you an' Casey front-row seats."  
  
JD perked up. "Really? I heard we got some French show comin'. I think Casey'd really be impressed if we saw somethin' cultural."  
  
Josiah frowned. "French?"  
  
"Yeah, it's called-uh, burlesque'."  
  
Josiah and Nathan exchanged glances.  
  
"All right," Josiah said, "the show that comes t'town AFTER the next one, then.  
  
This seemed to satisfy JD as he sat back and looked around. After a moment, a frown creased his youthful face. "Hey, you guys notice how Ezra never hangs around in here no more? He's always over at Digger Dan's now, an' Inez told me he moved his room to Virginia's Hotel. This place is a lot nicer now that Inez is runnin' it, you'd think Ezra would come over here to clean up."  
  
Both Nathan and Josiah shifted uncomfortably.  
  
"Reckon he's still smartin' over what happened," Nathan said quietly, picking at his food. "Inez told me about it, she was worried about him. Guess his ma did him over pretty good."  
  
"The woman is certainly a sly charmer," Josiah noted, his eyes somber.  
  
"Yeah," JD nodded, then said reluctantly, "Hey, you...you don't think he's still mad at me, so you? For goin' to Maude's place instead of his?"  
  
Nathan nodded. "That may be, JD. Way Inez was talkin', he's a mighty bitter man."  
  
"Oh." JD sat for a moment, his face thoughtful. "Well-then, I guess I better apologize."  
  
"Ezra's pretty proud, JD," Josiah noted, placing his empty coffee cup down with a gentle thud. "He might not accept it right now. Better let him cool off a little first."  
  
"Gotta admit, I was gonna talk to im yesterday, but just couldn't get up the nerve," Nathan said with a touch of regret. "He's pretty angry, I think he's still workin' it out. When we get back, he'll likely be more willin' to talk."  
  
JD nodded. "Yeah. An' maybe by then I'll know what to say."  
  
  
The small, dusty jail sat perfectly silent in the muted glare of the hot afternoon sun, the three men within its walls doing nothing to disturb its somber quiet.  
  
One of the men was a prisoner, sitting still in his cell, a tall, solidly built specimen in dusty leathers leaning back on the motheaten cot and watching his captors in wordless amusement. Derision gleamed in his small, sharp gray eyes, a contemptuous smirk on his round-nosed features, previously clean-shaven but now showing signs of stubble. he was clearly in little fear of his jailers, sitting with one hand dangling carelessly propped up on his drawn-up knee.  
  
The other two occupants of the building sat on the opposite side of the bars, studying their trapped prey with angry eyes. One of them leaned against the desk, his buckskin-clad form unmoving as he regarded the prisoner. His face was hard to see in the dim, dusty light, beneath his battered hat pulled low over his long, dark curls. But his blue eyes blazed with furious intensity at the man behind the bars, and his handsome face was set in fierce concentration.  
  
Chris was seated at the sheriff's desk, leaning back in a casual way, his hands folded across his stomach. The pensiveness of that morning had been set aside in favor of the present situation. His black clothes made him almost impossible to see in the gloom; his face was barely discernible beneath his wide-brimmed black hat. The observer who cared to look hard enough, however, would be able to make out a face worn by a lifetime of hard living and years of grief, tempered by calm deliberation. He studied the prisoner intensely as well, his green eyes boring through the iron bars as if he could will the desired reaction from the man through sheer force of presence alone. His calm demeanor belied the ferocity of his gaze, and his clothes and attitude gave the impression of a reclining panther about to spring on its victim and devour it whole.  
  
Finally the prisoner sighed, the noise breaking the silence of the jail.  
  
"You boys can stare all day if you want," he said, the slightest hint of a smile in his smooth voice. "I ain't changin' my mind."  
  
"Don't be a damn fool, Yates," the buckskin-clad man said angrily, standing up and striding to the bars. "I can make you tell the judge in Tascosa the truth, but you ain't gonna like it."  
  
Yates laughed, regarding his interrogator smugly. "Only truth I know, Tanner, is that you're wanted for murder in Tascosa."  
  
Vin Tanner grabbed the bars and leaned in close, his blue eyes blazing. "Eli Joe killed that farmer, Yates. You heard him confess it right before he was going to hang me. You were there!"  
  
Yates smiled. "I heard no such thing."  
  
Vin paused, then turned to his comrade.  
  
"Gimme the keys, Chris. I got a few ideas that'll settle this up real quick."  
  
Chris Larabee sat up and glared at Yates. "I'd advise you to think this over, Yates. Vin an' I are both gettin' pretty cranky."  
  
"Think what over?" Yates said with surprise. "I'm tellin' the truth here. I never heard Eli Joe say nothin' about any frame-up or murder. I got the idea the whole thing was some kind of personal grudge."  
  
Vin smoldered for a moment, then slowly put his hands on the bars and leaned forward. "You're lyin'," he growled, his voice guttural with fury.  
  
"Tell it to the judge, Tanner," Yates replied calmly, sitting back. "There's only one man can prove me wrong, an' unfortunately your, uh, friend' there killed him. Maybe you should be workin' him over instead of me."  
  
Chris jumped to his feet. "One more smart remark like that an' we'll both take you out."  
  
Yates grunted. "Go ahead. Then I can tell the jury how you men beat confessions out of people."  
  
Chris and Vin stared in frustration at Yates.  
  
"You're gonna tell that jury in Tascosa the truth and clear Vin's name," Chris said with calm finality.  
  
The prisoner returned the gaze, unruffled. "We'll see about that, Larabee."  
  
With that, Yates lay down and turned his back on the two gunmen. Chris and Vin eyed him for another moment, then made their way back to the front of the jail, clearly frustrated.  
  
"Five minutes, Chris," Vin said softly, rubbing one fist with his other hand. "Give me five minutes with him, an' he'd tell im Eli set me up."  
  
"If we had more time, I'd say go ahead," Chris replied, sitting on the edge of the desk and rubbing his chin with one hand. "But Tascosa wants him by next Tuesday before Judge Watkins leaves for Phoenix, an' he's got to be fit to travel." He looked at Vin. "Can you do it so it doesn't show?"  
  
Vin pursed his lips and let out an agitated sigh, glancing at Yates. "Knew there was somethin' the Comanches forgot to teach me."   
  
The jailhouse door swung open, and Ezra's lean figure appeared in its warping frame.  
  
"I apologize for interrupting your tete-a-tete, gentlemen," the Southerner drawled. "Is our guest feeling any more cooperative?"  
  
"Not yet, but it's a long trip to Tascosa," Vin said, glancing back at Yate's supine form.  
  
"And an interesting one it will be, I'm sure," was Ezra's response. He looked at Chris. "I'm afraid I shall have to hear about the details later, as there is an urgent matter in St. Louis which requires my immediate attention."  
  
Chris glanced up. "Trouble with your mother?"  
  
Ezra tried to hide a grimace. "Not directly, although she is involved. Is a short sabbatical permissible?"  
  
Chris considered the question for a moment, studying Ezra as he did so. Then he glanced at Vin.  
  
"Think Buck can watch things by himself for a while?"  
  
Vin shrugged. "Don't see why not, long as no pretty ladies come to town."  
  
"That would hardly prove an obstacle," Ezra offered. "I understand from our mutual friend that after his impending fatherhood scare with Miss Lucy, Buck has sworn off women until marriage."  
  
Chris chuckled shortly. "The last time he said that it lasted about five minutes." He looked at Ezra. "Take care of things quick as you can, then get back. Way this place is, who knows what could happen."  
  
"An' give our best to your ma," Vin smiled. "Heard she stirred things up quite a bit when she was here."  
  
Ezra gave the slightest of starts, then nodded and smiled quickly.  
  
"Oh, yes, she certainly did. Well," he touched the brim of his flat-topped black hat, "I shall see you gentlemen upon your return. Best of luck, I am quite assured of your success."  
  
He began to close the door before Vin stopped him.   
  
"Hey, there anythin' we can do t'help y'out, Ezra?"  
  
Ezra paused for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. His green eyes flickered a bit, somewhat sadly, and he finally looked up at Vin.  
  
"No thank you, Vin, everyone here has done quite enough for me already."  
  
With that, Ezra pulled the door closed, and they could see him quickly walking up the street to Digger Dan's saloon.  
  
  
The night streets of Four Corners were deserted beneath the midnight moon, so none but a few wandering drunks saw the two horsemen ride into town from the eastern end. The two shadowy figures rode slowly towards the jail, the hollow thudding hoof beats of their mounts bouncing unheeded off of the wooden buildings. Finally they reached the jail, one man dismounting while the other rode along around the structure.  
  
Stepping quickly to the jailhouse door, the slim, gray-clad rider pushed the door open and peered inside.  
  
"Scuse me? Mister? You the sheriff?"  
  
The man inside put down his religious reading and regarded the visitor warily. "One of em, stranger. Name's Josiah. Got a problem?"  
  
"Yeah, I think there's a fight up the street by the saloon. Damn near got my head shot off. Better take a look."  
  
Josiah paused, then drew his gun. "Can't leave the jail, son, but I'll step outside an' see what I can do."  
  
He glanced back at Yates, who was dozing on his cot, then stepped quickly to the jailhouse door. The gray-clad man pointed to an active knot of men far up the street.  
  
"See em? There's five of em, all liquored up-"  
  
In the jail, Yates was scowling at the disturbance and trying to get some sleep when he heard a voice hiss at him from nearby.  
  
"Yates!"  
  
The marshal sat up and peered through the small window above his cot.  
  
"Who's there?" he whispered, looking back to where Josiah was trying to talk to the gray-clad man.  
  
"Hanley," was the quiet reply, "You member me, I'm with Eli Joe's gang."  
  
Yates didn't move, knowing that Josiah would be keeping an eye on him. "About time! Get me the hell out of here!"  
  
"Geezus, not yet, Yates!" Hanley hissed. "We're outnumbered here in town, we gotta wait til they're out in the desert where they can't get help. How many are takin' you to Tascosa?"  
  
"Five, I think," Yates said quickly. "Includin' Larabee an' Tanner."  
  
"Shit!" Hanley spat. "Well, we got six, maybe we can take em. Might need to get some more guns, just to be sure. "  
  
"You wanna even things out here," Yates suggested, "there'll be just one of em left in town. Don't reckon you'd want him helpin' the others."  
  
"Let me do the thinkin', Yates," was Hanley's icy reply. " Just stay low an' don't cause no fuss an' we'll get you out of this."   
  
"Hanley, you gotta know," Yates said anxiously, "I tried to help Eli get away. An' I ain't told em nothin' bout the rest of you. They still think they got all of his men."  
  
"We'll see it stays that way," Hanley hissed back.   
  
A soft series of scraping footsteps indicated Hanley's retreat; Yates swiftly plopped back onto his cot, trying to look as relaxed as possible as Josiah walked back in with the gray-clad man. He could almost feel Josiah's glance as the preacher checked on his only prisoner.  
  
"Could be trouble," Josiah was saying. "If they don't break up soon, go knock on room 5 of Mrs. Dierdrich's boarding house. Buck Wilmington lives there, he'll help ya out."  
  
"Thanks, mister," the other man said. "Can't let th' bad guys run th' streets, can we?"  
  
"Nope," was Josiah's lazy reply as he sat back down to his book. "An' the gods of justice thank you for your contribution to the peace."  
  
The stranger nodded and dashed out, hopped onto his horse and rode away. If Josiah had watched him leave town, he would have noticed another, larger rider join him halfway up the street, and the large rider tossing a handful of coins to the now remarkably docile knot of men.  
  
"What'd Yates tell ya?" Gray asked Hanley as they rode out of town.  
  
"Enough," was the terse reply, and they rode the rest of the way into the desert without exchanging another word.  
  
  
Ezra sat alone at the rough table in Digger Dan's saloon, going over his winnings as the staff prepared to close up around him. Not a bad night, he thought as he thumbed the wad of bills; should be enough to get to at least Kansas City. He wasn't planning beyond that at the moment, eager only to get going and let fate take him where it may, as he always had before.  
  
He sighed and sat back, fingering the last shot of whiskey as he watched the young kid who worked for Dan sweep up the floor. Dan's saloon certainly lacked the charm of his former haunt; the tables and chairs were unpolished, the floors were stained with beer, blood and tobacco juice, the lighting was murky, and the denizens who frequented it were considerably more dissolute than the clientele he was used to gambling with. Fortunately, that worked in Ezra's favor, and he had cleaned up without too much effort.   
  
A strange sadness coursed through his gut as he realized this would be his last night in Four Corners. He hadn't wanted it to end like this, but there was nothing else he could do. Every sight and sound of the place only reminded him of the dream he'd lost and the men who'd helped destroy it. It was time to move on, and Ezra knew that it wasn't Four Corners he'd miss so much as the illusion of what he had hoped it would be – an illusion now hopelessly shattered.  
  
  
Nathan paced in front of Digger Dan's, nervously fingering his hat and trying to figure out what he was going to say to Ezra. He wanted to clear the air before they all left – Ezra for St. Louis, Nathan with the others to take Yates to Tascosa. But try as he might, Nathan could not think of a thing to say.  
  
The problem was, he thought, that he was still too ashamed of himself to even want to admit he'd actually allowed Maude to pass him off as a physician. He hadn't even known about the sign until after she put it up – he'd simply agreed to look after Maude's guests in exchange for a larger, nicer room in her hotel.   
  
Nathan punched his hat in anger as he recalled that he had actually enjoyed it for a while. Folks had actually treated him with some respect, and it had been quite a change to tend people in a big, well-lit facility instead of his small, dim rented room.   
  
Then he had seen Ezra peering angrily up at him from the hotel lobby, and Nathan did what he had never done before – he ran in shame from the Southerner, unwilling to face him. Nathan had often felt disgust at Ezra's conning, deceptive behavior, but now he realized he was guilty of the exact same thing. And he did not like that feeling at all.  
  
Part of it was the fact that Nathan had tried all of his life to be an honest person; it was one of his mother's most fondly taught virtues, and it hurt him to think he had betrayed her ideals. But more than that, he felt that he had badly damaged his fragile relationship with the gambler, one which was frequently frustrating but which he found oddly challenging. Nathan had seen enough bigoted, mean-spirited Southerners to know that Ezra wasn't one of them, and he didn't want to give up on Ezra yet. For some reason, he wanted Ezra to know it, too.  
  
He stopped his pacing and squarely faced the saloon, screwing up his nerve. He knew Ezra was angry at him, almost as angry as Nathan was at himself, and Nathan hated to let such matters be. If he was going to forgive himself, he had to ask Ezra's forgiveness first.  
  
  
Ezra barely looked up as Nathan strode through the doors of Dan's saloon.  
  
"Well, good evening, Mr. Jackson," Ezra drawled sourly, returning his attention to his money. "Making house calls now, are we?"  
  
Nathan shrugged awkwardly; Ezra was angry, all right. "Heard you was leavin' tomorrow for St. Louis. Everythin' all right?"  
  
The other man glanced at him quickly, with an expression which looked to Nathan like surprise, before adopting a nonchalant attitude. "Merely a family affair. Nothing you need to trouble yourself over."  
  
Nathan stood for another moment, then sat down nearby.  
  
"Y'know, I don't mind helpin' if I can," he offered, hoping to get Ezra to relax. "You don't got to think you gotta be proud an' hide everythin'."  
  
"Much obliged, but I'd like to hang on to my pride," was the acid response, as Ezra leveled bitter green eyes at him. "It is about all I have possession of, at this point."  
  
He knocked back the last of the whiskey and began folding his bills. Nathan shook his head.  
  
"Avoidin' your friends an' comin' in here to drink an' gamble ain't gonna make things right," Nathan pointed out. Ezra sighed and shot the healer a warning look.  
  
"I do not recall asking you for moral advice, Dr'. Jackson," Ezra said in an icy tone.  
  
"Look, forget that Dr.' hogwash, Ezra," Nathan urged. "That wasn't my idea, you know I ain't no liar when it comes to that."  
  
"Yes, well, your searing conscience did not seem to move you to quit my mother's employ, did it?" Ezra asked sharply, shaking his head. "You of all people, Nathan – I thought you could have resisted her, what with your strong virtuous character and all."  
  
Nathan started a bit, stung with shame. He could hardly argue with Ezra about his lapse of good judgment, especially since it had been bothering him so much lately. Nathan had been hoping that no one had noticed or held it against him; he had worked so hard to establish himself in Four Corners, and it pained him to think he may have undone it all with one careless act of selfishness.  
  
But then, Nathan thought as he allowed anger to overwhelm his shame, who was Ezra to throw Nathan's mistake back in his face? It wasn't like Ezra's soul was spotless, after all. Nathan had only been trying to help people-unlike Ezra, who had only been looking to profit from other people's misery.  
  
"Hey, she didn't offer me nothin' but a room an' some respect," Nathan shot back, "which is more than I'm gettin' from you right now."  
  
"My apologies," Ezra said quickly, rising from his chair and never taking his eyes off of Nathan, "I really cannot respect a man who pulls a con and then insists on blaming others for it. At least be honest in your deceit."  
  
Nathan stood up and pushed his chair back with a clatter, his eyes snapping. "You a fine one to accuse me of lyin' when you're linin' your cheatin' pockets with other people's cash," he said hotly. "Good thing you don't have that saloon no more, else you'd be fleecin' every man in town!"  
  
Ezra's expression didn't change, but his right cheek twitched just a bit. He took a deep breath and slammed his chair back into place under the table.   
  
"You will forgive me if I do not share your dance of joy over the grave of my most dearly held desire," he said in a husky voice. "Now I must excuse myself, as I am finding your self-righteousness even more unpalatable than this establishment's whiskey."  
  
Ezra grabbed his winnings and strode out of the saloon. Nathan followed him as far as the door and watched his dim form disappear down the empty street. He felt as if he should shout something after him, but he was too angry to form any words. Imagine Ezra Standish saying his company made him sick! Not half as sick as Ezra's activities made Nathan. The loss of his business had taught Ezra nothing at all – he was still taking other folks' money and not caring at all who got hurt in the process. All Ezra seemed to care about was who to blame for his problems, and anybody would do-anybody, of course, but himself.  
  
Nathan sat himself down hard and rubbed his head with one hand, feeling suddenly exhausted as the anger slowly subsided. Dammit, this wasn't how he'd wanted this to go. Ezra was the most stubborn fool he'd ever seen, and Nathan still didn't like how he made a living off other people's pain, but...  
  
The memory of Ezra's face right after Nathan spoke of the loss of his saloon flashed across Nathan's mind; it had only been for a moment, but there had been pain in the gambler's eyes, an expression very close to grief. He was still deeply wounded over what had happened, and Nathan had known it, and made that remark anyway. Instead of patching things up between them, Nathan had made things even worse.  
  
Damn!  
  
He sighed and stood, looking over his shoulder at Dan as he extinguished the last of the lamps. He had to get back to the clinic; they were leaving early tomorrow. There'd be no chance to talk to Ezra again until after they all got back, a fact which made Nathan very uneasy. He hated leaving things go; anything could happen in the meantime. But there was no choice – well, none that he wanted to think about, at any rate. If Ezra wanted to be stubborn, well, Nathan could be stubborn, too.   
  
He put on his hat and stepped outside into the softly moonlit street, turning his steps away from the saloon and towards his humble room, and bed.  
  
  
Dawn was just beginning to pink the eastern sky the next morning, its gentle light slowly battling with the darkness for dominion of the sky. The desert rocks, just beginning to cool from the previous day's heat, began to emerge from the nighttime gloom, their hard forms becoming discernible in the creeping light. Around the mouth of the cave where Hanley and the other survivors of Eli Joe's gang slept, there was no movement, save for one slim figure which was carefully perched on one of the rocks, busily cleaning a well-used but still serviceable Colt .44 by the light of a battered tin lamp.  
  
The girl barely spared a glance at the breathtaking sunrise unfolding before her; she was too intent on cleaning the weapon in her hands, making sure that when the time came it could fulfill its deadly purpose with lethal accuracy.   
  
Every now and then she might glance up at the sky, now blazing with pink and purple hues, but the expression on her young face would be only a twitch of agonized memory rather than appreciation of the scene's beauty. She didn't want to remember the times when she was a very little girl, watching the frontier sun rise outside her bedroom window with innocent wonder. That little girl had not known what lay ahead, the day when the sun would rise on her own personal hell and never set again. It was much easier to forget, and live for the day, and accept life for what she now knew it was: a night with no end.  
  
She sighed with satisfaction as she hefted the gun in her hand; all finished, finally. She'd been too angry about Yates last night to tend to her tools, and she knew Hanley would want them all ready for work today. But that bastard Yates would get what he deserved, and the remnants of Eli Joe's gang would never have to worry about getting caught again.   
  
Why did it take them so long to let me shoot with them, she wondered with a touch of anger as she felt the gun in her hand. She'd been in the gang for years now, but only as a nurse and cook, which frustrated her endlessly. She wanted to fight, to ride, to take the anger in her out somewhere and let it burn away. But it had only been recently that they'd finally allowed her along, and while she hadn't killed anyone yet, she'd caused at least a few nasty wounds. It was hard, learning to kill, but she felt sure she could do it. Any squeamishness she might have had had been beaten out of her long ago.  
  
The gun was quickly loaded; she prided herself on being faster than any of the men when it came to loading her gun. It was one of the few good things her Pa had left her, the other being the gun itself, and the realization that life was only won by those hard enough not to care. He'd taught her to expect no kindness or justice, and she'd found it a very sound philosophy. It was much easier to deal with life when all you expected from it was a hard ride, and all you asked for was a quick death. There was no reason she could see to think that there was any more to it than that.  
  
She sat for a moment, palming the Colt in her hand, her keen brown eyes scanning the desert landscape a short distance below. A movement caught her eye; a large brown jackrabbit had hopped from its hole and was searching for food. She sat perfectly still, watching as it came closer, close enough that she could see its liquid brown eyes looking up at her thoughtfully as it sat on its haunches, nose wriggling as it sniffed the air. She cocked her head and studied it for a long, silent while.  
  
Then in one lightning motion she brought up her gun and blew the rabbit's head completely off.  
  
The echo from the gunshot had barely finished bouncing from the cliffside walls when she heard another sound, a man's voice from close by.  
  
"Pony!"  
  
She turned, the smoking Colt still in her hand. In the brightening gloom she saw a form coming towards her; it was the dark-haired dandy, his fancy, threadbare shirt hanging out of his trousers, his hatless hair ruffling in the warm morning breeze.  
  
She stood, looking down at the bloodied corpse of the rabbit without emotion. "Ain't no cause for alarm, Trent, just gettin' us all some breakfast."  
  
"It ain't rabbit I was hankerin' for, girl'," Trent replied with a smile, coming up next to her and grabbing her in an aggressive embrace. "Just noticed you were gone, is all, wanted to pick up where we left off last night."  
  
"I don't recall that we left off' anywhere," was Pony's reply as she wriggled from his grasp. "You was too drunk to do anythin' but snore in my ear."  
  
Trent blinked, then took her wrist. "Oh. Well, c'mon-we got some time til Hanley gets up."  
  
"I gotta get breakfast made," she said, annoyed.   
  
He grinned back at her. "I'm all the breakfast you'll need."  
  
"Dangit, Trent, I mean it!" she hissed, yanking her wrist from his grasp. "Shit, you're worse'n Eli Joe was."  
  
Trent looked back at her, a little angry now, and stopped, turning and leaning against one of the rock walls in a casual way as he spoke to her. "You sound right ungrateful, Pony. If it wasn't for Joe you'd still be rollin' drunks an' turnin' tricks in Wolf Tooth Run stead of ridin' with us an' gettin' rich."  
  
"I ain't ungrateful," she insisted, wiping her nose with the back of one hand. "But Jesus, give a gal a rest. There's five of you fellars, y'know."  
  
"There'll be more, if Hanley can find extra guns so we can take care of Yates," Trent said calmly, surveying the morning sky before looking back at her with a bemused expression. "But you're a growing girl-I'm sure you can handle it."  
  
She eyed him seriously, one hand gripping her gun. "Reckon I can," she said quietly. He smiled, then turned and walked back up to the cave.  
  
She sighed, and looked once more at the sunrise, now far enough along to spread the first golden gleams across the horizon.   
  
Then her eyes dropped to the mangled, bloody rabbit's body.   
  
"It ain't like there's anything else," she said bitterly, and climbed down the rocky foothills to retrieve the dead jackrabbit.  
  
  
Ezra carefully led Chaucer from the livery into the street, trying to be quiet; the sun was just coming up and he wanted to be gone before the others arose. He hadn't really anticipated his leaving to be difficult, but for some reason he wanted to be out as quickly as possible.  
  
He stifled a yawn as he adjusted his saddlebags; he'd slept poorly, and the softness of his featherbed and down pillows had been of no use. He'd miss that bed, he thought, it was undoubtedly the nicest one he'd ever slept in. But after that fight with Nathan, even the most comfortable bed in the world would have been no match for his churning mind.  
  
He grit his teeth against the pain and anger which surged through his chest whenever he thought about that fight. He'd suspected that Nathan didn't like him, and last night had only proven it. How dare he sit there and lord it over Ezra that he was a cheat, that his bar deserved to fail, as if Nathan was some spotless angel without a fault. That was probably why he'd come by, to gloat over Ezra's misfortune.  
  
Somewhere in Ezra's heart, he knew this was wrong, that Nathan wasn't like that, but he was in no mood to listen. It was much easier, and felt much better, to ignore that part of him and think that he had been right in the first place, that this had all been a mistake and he should leave. They had never really been his friends, not like they were with Vin or Buck or Chris. They were just like the cousins his mother had left him with when he was a child and she went off to con and gamble – they saw him as useful only when he was needed, then treated him like dirt the rest of the time.  
  
He paused by the livery, slowly stroking Chaucer with one hand as he surveyed the misty, deserted street, glowing pink in the newborn sunlight. How different this was from the last time he left town, supposedly for good, he thought. The new law, Marshal Bryce, had ordered them disbanded; they had gathered here for only a moment before they all rode away, probably for good. Ezra could still recall the way he'd felt then, the awful unfamiliar burning in his gut, the painful roughness of his throat. It had been hard; they had all fought together, shed blood together, and as he sat in the saddle and bid farewell to them he'd been struck by the thought that he had never felt so lonely in all of his life. He had tried not to show it, but it had been positively agonizing.  
  
He sighed and leaned against Chaucer for a moment, closing his eyes. Lord, what an idiot he'd been; Mother would laugh her head off if she knew he'd been so gullible. The burning was back, but this time it hurt even more, because he knew the loneliness would not end this time. He would never allow this to happen to him again, the blighted dreams and blasted hopes. He would leave here alone, and make his way alone, and find his fortune alone. It was the way it had always been, and the sooner he put this sentimental nonsense behind him, the faster the pain would stop and the better off he'd be. He was a fool to think it would ever be any different.  
  
"Gettin' an early start, Ezra?"  
  
Ezra jumped and stood up, blinking as he faced the amused countenance of Vin Tanner, hatless and without his buckskin jacket, which was slung over one arm.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Tanner," Ezra said quickly, regaining his composure with professional skill. "Indeed I am, it is a long way to St. Louis and I detest sentimental goodbyes."  
  
Vin nodded a bit, looking up the street as if he knew his direct gaze unnerved the gambler. "Yeah, ain't got much use for em myself. Just wanted to wish you luck on your trip, hope you get this mess ironed out real soon."  
  
Ezra forced a smile. "I anticipate it may be solved even as soon as I leave town."  
  
"Well, that'd be right speedy," Vin observed. "Sure wish we could dispense with Yates that fast." He thought for a moment, shook his head at something, then looked back at Ezra. "Ezra, I ain't sure how this is all gonna go over, so in case I don't come back..." He hesitated, then extended his hand. "Been a pleasure losin' at cards to you."  
  
The gambler was momentarily thrown; he hadn't expected this. But he quickly recalled himself, thinking, he's just doing this for show, he knows Chris and the others would never let anything happen to him. Rich in the friendship of the others, Vin could afford to throw a scrap in Ezra's direction.   
  
Ezra smiled and shook the extended hand firmly. "Thank you, Vin," he said, surprised at the catch in his voice. Careful, he thought as he released Vin's hand; don't slip already.  
  
If Vin noticed, he didn't show it; instead, he shrugged on his jacket. "Well, best go get Sire ready to go. See you in a few weeks, pard."  
  
He nodded and headed back to the livery. Ezra watched him for a moment, the quickly mounted up, trying to shake off the sadness clutching at him. Don't be an idiot, he chided himself, you should have left here ages ago. He probably just feels guilty, and wanted to make himself feel better by being nice to the wretched outcast.  
  
Just ride and don't look back.  
  
He trotted past the saloon, trying not to look at it, or the hotel; so he didn't see Inez rush out until he heard her voice.  
  
"Senor!"  
  
Ezra reined in Chaucer and looked back to see the slim young Mexican woman jogging towards him, a small bundle in her hands, her long loose brown hair flying in the wind.  
  
"I wanted to give you some food for your journey," she said breathlessly, handing him the bundle. He accepted it, trying not to be bitter as he looked at the woman to whom his mother had entrusted the running of the Standish Tavern. Inez was a very smart young woman, as ambitious and clever as anyone he'd ever met; but it pained him to know that his mother had chosen her over her own son to manage the bar which had been his in the first place.  
  
"Thank you, Inez," he said simply, desperately wishing he could just get the hell out of there. She smiled, her warm dark eyes friendly.  
  
"We have missed you at the Tavern, Senor," she said. "I hope when you return you will come back. I will even serve you your favorite meal, free of charge!"  
  
He chuckled in spite of himself. "I wish you luck in obtaining lobster Newberg in this wilderness, my dear. They have only recently mastered the knife and fork."  
  
She smiled. "Vaya con dios, Senor."  
  
He said nothing in reply, only tipped his hat with a polite smile and rode off. At least he knew the saloon was in safe hands; if only it had stayed in his.  
  
As he neared the church, he tensed; what was Josiah doing up at this hour? He appeared to be talking to one of the locals, probably about looking after the church while he was gone. Ezra felt a sense of dread settle over him; he was still angry at Josiah, and did not want to go through an attempted apology, or another farewell.  
  
To his surprise, Josiah attempted neither. He seemed to hesitate, as if embarrassed under Ezra's gaze; then he waved and shouted, "Godspeed, Ezra!"  
  
Ezra smiled, nodded, tipped his hat, and rode on out of town, at once thankful and saddened that Josiah had not tried any kind of apology. Well, he thought, shrugging off the unexpected disappointment, I don't suppose he was all that ashamed of his behavior anyway.  
  
He didn't see Josiah take a few steps towards him as he rode away, and start to shout out to him for one final word. Ezra had missed the preacher's balancing on the brink of calling to him before hesitating and then changing his mind, and the self-reproaching look on Josiah's face as he watched Ezra ride off. And he certainly could not have heard Josiah damn himself for being a coward as he walked back to the helpful, but baffled, townsperson.  
  
  
"All right, then. Everyone know what to do?"  
  
Hanley's gruff, businesslike tones cut through the warming desert air as he addressed his small, deadly group. They all stood now in front of the rocky caves, ready to ride, their mounts saddled up and packed.  
  
"Yes, sir!" Trent said firmly with a confident smile as he adjusted the tilt of the beaten-up silk top hat on his head.  
  
"Stop fiddlin' with that silly hat, Trent!" Gray barked, annoyed.   
  
Trent glared at him. "Look, just because noone else here cares how they look-"  
  
"Forget the damned hat!" Hanley interjected angrily.  
  
Trent sighed and shot Gray a dirty look. "Me an' Stan are supposed t'go to Sutler's Forge an' see about scarin' up some extra guns."  
  
Gray cast a glance at the large ex-convict. "Glad you can put up with this sissy, Stan."  
  
Stan grunted and said in a deep voice, "If it means I kin get some decent chow an' some new faces, I'll put up with anythin'!"  
  
"An' what was wrong with the rabbit I fixed you fellers?" Pony asked as she adjusted the straps on her saddle.  
  
"Nothin', if you like yer food gamey an' fleabit," Stan replied.  
  
"Ain't my fault grub's scarce round here," the girl growled, brushing off her dusty hands. "You wanna fix your own meals, you're sure welcome to."  
  
"Once we take care of Yates an' them lawmen we can get to Mexico an' use our stash to live like kings," Hanley assured them. "Til then shut your damned spoiled mouths. Now me an' Dark Sun – " He jerked a thumb towards the buckskin-clad, sharp-eyed young man with the long, dirty blonde hair who stood nearby with arms folded in silence, " – are gonna watch 'em as they leave town an' track 'em as they go. We have to wait til they get where noone can help 'em. An' if they're goin' to Tascosa I know just the spot."  
  
Stan shifted a little. "Uh, you sure that's a good idea? Remember the last time we had Dark Sun shadowin' somebody?"  
  
"Yeah," Trent grunted, placing his hands on his belt and leaning back a bit. "Jumped 'em early an' by the time we got there he'd cut 'em up so bad their own mothers wouldn't know 'em."  
  
Hanley eyed the silent Dark Sun carefully for a moment. The young man stared back, his blue eyes cold and without emotion, save a barely contained killing rage.  
  
"Hell, boys, why you think we got 'em with us?" Hanley chuckled with satisfaction. "Never saw someone with such a talent an' taste for killin'."  
  
Dark Sun's eyes were impassive. "I move only as the spirits command me," he said quietly.   
  
Hanley seemed unshaken. "Yeah, well, I'm commandin' you to keep that fancy knife of yours in that belt til I say so. Right now I just need you to be quiet an' keep an eye on that travelin' party, an' I know you can do that."  
  
"Hell, he's snuck up on me enough times," Pony muttered, folding her arms. Dark Sun's eyes darted over to her, passing over her body once before returning to gaze at Hanley. His expression remained unreadable.   
  
Pony noticed it and glowered at him as a shiver ran through her.  
  
"Now Gray," Hanley said, pointing back to Four Corners, "you git back to that town an' keep an eye on things there, make sure they don't send out any reinforcements or anything to the posse once they leave town. If they do you get some guns an' take care of it."  
  
Gray scowled and hefted his rifle. "Wish you wasn't givin' me the borin' job, Hanley."  
  
Hanley sighed. "Dammit, Gray, this is gonna be a rough ride, an' let's face it, you just ain't up for it. You're too old-you've almost got yourself killed three times lately."  
  
"I can kill a man same as Trent can, or Dark Sun!" Gray insisted.  
  
"May be," was the unimpressed reply, "but we're gonna be ridin' far an' fast, an' this is too important to take any chances with. Just wait for us here-when we get back it'll be Mexico an' freedom."  
  
Gray gave up and stood back, still unhappy but unwilling to argue further.  
  
"What about me, boss?" Pony asked, stepping forward.   
  
Hanley glanced at her and paused, as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Oh. Um – you go with Trent an' Stan, watch their backs."  
  
Pony's eyes blazed. "Why can't I come with you an' Dark Sun? You might need another gun, an' you know I can shoot!"  
  
Hanley eyed her squarely. "Because you're just as apt to go off as he is, that's why, an' I got enough to do without havin' to watch both of ya. I know you – first chance you get, you'll go put a bullet in Yates' worthless skull before we're ready. Wouldn't you?"  
  
He was standing before her now, towering over her sixteen-year-old frame. She glared at him, unable to lie about the anger flaming her cheeks.  
  
"I owe it to Eli Joe," she hissed, staring firmly into his eyes.  
  
Hanley laughed. "Forget that shit, Pony. You just want to prove what a tough little bitch you are – not that you ain't done that already, God knows."  
  
Trent snorted. "Any girl who'd be with you would have to have an iron stomach, Hanley."  
  
"One more smart remark, Trent," Hanley snarled, "an' I'll have you hog-tied an' give you to Dark Sun for some knife work on that pretty mug of yours."  
  
Trent grimaced and shut his mouth.  
  
"Now we'll all meet at White Wolf Gorge on Thursday morning," Hanley continued. "'Cept for Gray, of course."  
  
Gray sighed. "Shit."  
  
"They should be at least that far along by then, an' we'll go from there. Now get going."  
  
The parties split up. Hanley and Dark Sun mounted up and rode towards Four Corners with Gray, while Trent, Stan and Pony prepared to ride east to Sutler's Forge.  
  
"Hanley's a touchy bastard, isn't he?" Trent griped as he swung his lean body easily into his saddle, once Hanley was out of earshot.  
  
"Ya shouldn't mouth off to him like that, Trent," Pony said as she picked up her reins.   
  
Trent smiled. "Worried about me, darlin'?"  
  
Pony snorted. "No! But he wasn't kiddin' about Dark Sun."  
  
"That boy scares me," Stan confessed.   
  
Trent laughed. "Hell, Stan, you're so big that if he ever tried anything, you'd just have to fall on him."  
  
"I could snap 'im like a twig, sure," Stan replied. "But you seen his eyes? He ain't right in th' head. Someone like that could murder us in our sleep or somethin'. An' you know he killed that Indian family that raised 'im – it was only cause he so good at sneakin' off an' hidin' that the rest of the tribe didn't get 'im."  
  
Pony smirked. "You've killed three prison guards armed with guns an' that skinny little boy has you scared, Stan? That's funny."  
  
"Men with guns I can fight," Stan shot back. "Crazy folks is different. An' Dark Sun is crazy."  
  
"Good thing he's on our side, then," Trent said, turning his horse's head and spurring him into a trot. "C'mon, let's get to Sutler's Forge an' start hiring some guns."  
  
Stan smiled teasingly as he goaded his huge chestnut forward. "We'll get some handsome fellas for ya, Pony."  
  
The girl sat for a moment before urging her mare to follow the others.  
  
"Pick whoever you want, boys," Pony said in a weary voice, mostly to herself. "I learned early they're all the same."  
  
Without another word they rode towards the rising sun and Sutler's Forge.  
  
  
Vin grunted as he loaded up the last of his saddlebags onto Sire, his blue eyes squinting in the bright morning light.  
  
"Don't get in no trouble while we're gone, Buck," he said to the handsome, black-haired man standing behind him. The other man laughed and pulled on his tan hat, his mouth grinning widely beneath a long black mustache.  
  
"Hell, Vin, you don't got to worry about that," Buck said with conviction.   
"This boy's learned his lesson the hard way. No more playin' around for me!"  
  
The tracker chuckled. "Reckon Hell's freezin' over right about now, Josiah?"  
  
"Could be," the tall preacher mused as he tightened the cinch on Prophet's saddle. "That's the only time I ever thought I'd hear Buck swear off women."  
  
Buck smiled and nodded in acknowledgement of his comrade's derision. "Yeah, you all think this is a big joke, don't ya? Well, you just wait an' see. You're gonna see a new Buck Wilmington."  
  
Vin finished with Sire and turned to Buck. "I hope I can come back an' see that, Buck. Should be quite a sight."  
  
The other men grew quiet, and Buck cleared his throat.  
  
"Look, Vin," he said seriously, "they're still lookin' t'hang you in Tascosa. Why don't you stay here an' watch things, an' let me help Chris take that yella snake Yates to trial?"  
  
Vin eyed Buck thoughtfully, then the others; he could see they were all hoping he'd take Buck up on his offer. But he smiled a little and shook his head.  
  
"Sorry, Buck. It's my own fight, an' I aim to see it through." He began to climb onto Sire.  
  
Buck nodded. "Well, I sure hope that Yates fella gets to feelin' like helpin' ya out soon."  
  
Vin's jaw was set as he picked up Sire's reins.  
  
"Leave Yates to me," he said in a soft, deadly tone, and spurred forward to the jail.  
  
  
"Time to go, Yates."  
  
Chris's voice echoed loudly in the jail and mingled with the rattle of the metal keys as he unlocked Yates's cell. Behind him, Nathan held a rifle on the prisoner, daring him to try anything.  
  
"And I was just getting comfortable," Yates said with a smile as he picked up his hat and walked out. Chris glared at him and began cuffing his wrists.  
  
Yates eyed Nathan and smirked. "You coulda left your gunman outside, Larabee. I know you wouldn't dare kill me as long as you think I'll free your friend."  
  
"Oh, don't worry 'bout that, mister," Nathan said, his eyes flashing. "One of the things I've learned is where a man can get painful shot without dyin'."  
  
"You don't cooperate, he might just have to pass on that knowledge," Chris grunted as he fastened the cuffs.  
  
Yates chuckled, not at all disturbed. "That'd just be a waste of bullets, boys. I got nothin' to say, cept that Tanner's gonna hang like the guilty dog he is."  
  
Like lightning Chris's hand shot forward and grabbed the collar of Yate's dusty shirt, dragging him up a little bit so he could stare into the gunslinger's blazing ice-green eyes.  
  
"Easy, Chris," Nathan counseled.  
  
Chris said nothing, simply staring furiously into Yates's smug eyes.  
  
Yates smiled. "Yeah, you don't like that idea, do you, Larabee? Or maybe you just don't like the fact that it's your fault Tanner's in this little spot. You think I'm Tanner's enemy, but what would he need me for when he's got friends like you?"  
  
Chris's fist tightened on Yates' collar and he pulled him up so violently that Nathan became alarmed.  
  
"Chris!" he cried, but the other men ignored him. He now regarded Yates quietly, with one hand locked around his collar, too angry to speak.  
  
The door opened, and Vin popped his head in. He sized up the situation and sighed. "Still ornery, huh?"  
  
Chris stared at Yates for another moment, then released him with a rough shake. "Yup," he rasped.  
  
"Well, maybe some ridin'll loosen 'im up," Vin offered. "We're all set to go."  
  
Chris glared at Yates, grabbed him by the lapel of his musty jacket and shoved him at Nathan and Vin. "Good, I need some fresh air."  
  
"C'mon," Vin said, latching onto Yates and dragging him outside towards the horses.  
  
Nathan hefted his rifle and looked at Chris, whose face was still contorted with anger. "You gotta take it easy, Chris. You know he ain't gonna do us no favors."  
  
Chris leaned against the desk and wiped his mouth, still staring after Yates. He shook his head slowly. "Can't take it easy when it's Vin's life on the line."  
  
"We all know that," Nathan agreed calmly. "An' with five of us workin' on 'im, I bet we can change his mind by the time we reach Tascosa."  
  
Chris sighed, stood and adjusted his gunbelt. "If I don't kill him first," he muttered, and walked out the door. Nathan took a deep breath and followed him, knowing too well the truth which lurked behind the threat.  
  
  
"Now you all ride real careful," Buck was warning them as Chris and Vin mounted up. Yates was secured on a brown gelding, with Josiah holding the horse's tether.  
  
"We'll wire you when we reach Tascosa," Chris said as he gathered Valor's reins. "Keep an eye on things here, an' get a few townfolk t'help you out if you need it."  
  
"Oh, don't you worry 'bout ol' Buck," Buck smiled. "I already sworn off the only thing that ever gave me a lick of trouble, an' I can handle anything else they throw at me."  
  
His last words were drowned out by the clatter of the arriving stage; all of the mounted men and Buck turned to watch it stop up the street. The door opened, and the sole occupant stepped out, a buxom young woman in a clean but very worn low-cut dress which denoted her status as a working girl. As she brushed the tight black curls away from her face and looked around, clutching her patched carpetbag, Vin smiled and looked at Chris.  
  
"Reckon this beats the old record," he grinned, glancing at Buck's dumbfounded expression. He was obviously smitten.  
  
"Just be careful this time, OK?" Chris said with the hint of a smile in his eyes. Buck could only nod wordlessly, not looking as if he'd really heard what Chris had said.  
  
A rattling noise filled the air, and a small supply wagon lumbered around the corner into view, driven by JD. He pulled up alongside Chris and gave a nod.  
  
"We got enough supplies t'last us to Tascosa an' back," the young man announced, pushing his bowler hat back on his head a bit. "Mrs. Potter even threw in a bag of jerky on the house!"  
  
"That was right nice," Josiah observed.  
  
"Yeah, I'll have t'say thanks when we get back," Vin added, giving Yates a significant glance. The prisoner glared at him with a small, smug expression, and said nothing.  
  
Chris then looked back at the small group, a serious light in his eyes now. "Right. Let's go."  
  
Buck recovered enough to wave and say "Good luck!" as his friends and Yates moved out of town. As the group rode down the street and out into the vast desert towards Tascosa, they remained oblivious to the thin, gray-clad figure who stood far up the street, watching their departure, Buck, and the newly arrived working girl with equal interest.  



	2. Default Chapter Title

Ezra sighed as he dipped his fine handkerchief in the cool water of the small stream; not even noon and it was hot already. This was not going to be a pleasant trip.  
  
He wrung out the damp cloth and applied it to his face and neck, idly watching Chaucer as the beautiful horse drank from the running water. They were in a small rocky patch of rough growth beneath the shade of some sparse trees, far enough away from Four Corners to suit Ezra's taste. Now, he thought as he stretched out in the shadows and rested on his elbow, he needed a plan.  
  
First, he had to resolutely put Four Corners behind him. It felt good to finally be away from the painful memories of that place; now he could just chalk it up to another in a long line of misadventures, and go on. No doubt he would soon be able to forget all about it-at least this is what he told himself with confidence. No different, after all, from the dozens of other places he'd been. Simply another stop on the way to his fortune-it obviously wasn't going to happen there.  
  
A frown creased his brow as he pondered this idea. If it were true, then why did this odd burning persist in his gut? Why did this feel more like a mistake than a blessing?  
  
Because you're a sentimental fool, he chided himself as he stared at the sparkling waters of the stream. You allowed yourself to be conned by all their hollow talk of honor and justice. How many times were you almost killed alongside them, and what reward did you get for your efforts? Nothing but broken promises and betrayal, and no gentleman worth his salt would stand for it. Even if this didn't feel right, it was right. He just had to get used to being on his own again, and he would, in no time. He had always worked best by himself, and he knew now that it would never be otherwise. A sad thought to others, perhaps, but just fine with Ezra, now more than ever.  
  
His mind wandered back as he contemplated his past; he should have known by now that the pain of association was simply too great. He remembered how much he had loved his father, a gambler with more skill than sense; his disappearance when Ezra was five had hurt, but Ezra had been too young to really feel the pain. Then later, the abandonment by his mother, dropping him off like so much dirty laundry whenever he was too inconvenient to have around. The cousins never wanted him there – or if they did, the friendship was soon ended when his mother returned for him. No one he loved ever stayed in his life for long.  
  
The hope when she came back for him, that maybe this time she'd stay and he could actually have a home again like his cousins did, was shattered every time. And the pain grew with each betrayal, until it became unbearable. Then he discovered a simple truth – that he could end the pain by relying only on himself. He'd forgotten that fact for a while, but now he knew it would be his credo forever. It was the best way, for him.  
  
He shifted and rubbed one eye, going over his plan one more time. It was very important to him that his former comrades never knew he had decided to leave; it had to look like an unavoidable occurrence, not a deliberate action. Not that they'd probably care in either case, he thought sourly, but he didn't need an angry Chris Larabee coming after him for desertion of duty.   
  
After a week he'd send a telegram, telling them that things in St. Louis were too complicated for a swift return. He'd wire Judge Travis, too, apologizing for his prolonged absence. Damn good thing he signed that pardon before he left, Ezra thought – at least his bail jumping at Fort Laramie was no longer a concern. Then, after another week, he would send a final message-it would be a long time before he would be able to resume his duties. If they wanted to hire another gun while he was gone, he would tell them, he certainly wouldn't be offended...  
  
He reached into his boot to retrieve his wad of bills. His nimble fingers flew as he carefully counted the stash; two hundred and sixty dollars. Enough to go pretty much anywhere, and put some more away for the saloon besides. He grit his teeth as he replaced the money; he was going to own a saloon some day, no matter what tricks or betrayals he had to face.   
  
How he longed, right then, to stand in the glittering barroom of his future establishment and bathe in the success they had denied him. He wished his former comrades could see it; they'd probably try to win his favor then, all men wanted to court the wealthy and they would be no different. But he'd just ignore them, as they had ignored him. It was childish but damn, that thought felt good.  
  
He sat up; it was getting time to move on. Ezra sucked his gold tooth in thought; where to go now? San Francisco was promising, but the journey would be rough on horseback and he didn't want to give up Chaucer. Phoenix or Dallas beckoned, but there was a good chance his mother might be in Phoenix and he definitely did not want to run into her. And the road to Dallas might cross with the one to Tascosa, and he'd have a hard time explaining to the others why he was going to St. Louis by way of Texas.  
  
Perhaps, he mused as he stood up and adjusted his fine brocaded vest, he should simply do as he had always done – ride down the road and see what lay ahead. It had worked before, and if he just reminded himself to keep his mind on his goal and not get involved again, everything should work out. Let the others fight for justice, if there was such an entity – he was going to fight only for himself from now on, since no one else seemed interested in the job.  
  
He folded the wet handkerchief and placed it in his pocket, then strode to Chaucer, patting his neck before climbing into the saddle. The horse nickered a bit, licking its wet lips as Ezra gently guided it back onto the dusty road. Ezra smiled as they resumed their journey, trying to banish the odd heaviness in his heart with the hope that the unhappiness of Four Corners was now behind him, and only good fortune lay ahead.  
  
With that aspiration, he spurred Chaucer along to the next town, which the crudely made signpost at the side of the road indicated to be Sutler's Forge.  
  
  
Hanley stood next to Dark Sun as they waited on the rocky, brush-choked rise near Four Corners. Neither man moved as they scanned the barely discernible road leading out of the town towards Tascosa. The hot wind stirred Dark Sun's long blonde hair, but that was the only motion on the hill. Behind them the horses chewed silently on the dry desert grass, bored; they had been out there for hours.  
  
Of the two motionless figures, it was Hanley who was the most impatient. His mind kept wandering back to the hidden stash, its location known only to him, a hoard of almost a thousand dollars collected from various jobs. Eli Joe had intended that money to take them to Mexico, and they would've gone if it hadn't been for that ridiculous grudge the desperado had held against Vin Tanner. Forget about him, Hanley had told Eli; you know he's got some pretty mean friends now, and he'll never find you down in Mexico.  
  
But no – that stupid fool just had to go after Tanner. And now instead of living it up in Mexico, they were all in danger of becoming wanted. Even if Yates didn't talk, the other men who survived might. Hanley couldn't get to them, but he could make sure Yates never told anybody that some of Eli's gang had escaped. And of course while he was at it, get Tanner and his friends for good measure. If it wasn't for Tanner they'd be south of the border, and free, now.  
  
Dark Sun suddenly straightened, staring off towards town; Hanley followed the direction of his gaze and smiled.  
  
"Bout time," he muttered, as they observed a small group riding towards Texas. They were close enough to tell that there were five riders, Yates and four of the lawmen. The fifth was driving a small wagon, probably supplies for the trip. But one of the lawmen was Chris Larabee, a man whose prowess with a gun was legendary; he was worth two ordinary gunmen, maybe three. Hanley sure hoped Trent and the others could get a few more guns.  
  
"We could get them so easily from here," Dark Sun murmured quietly, one slim hand dangling to the gun which hung low on his hip.  
  
But Hanley shook his head. "Be better to wait til they're out farther, an' we got more guns. These boys ain't gonna go down without a fight."  
  
Dark Sun kept his gaze fixed on the group, a dreamy smile on his scarred face. "I hope they do fight. I'd like to see what they're made of before we kill them," he said in the same gentle, languid tones.  
  
"Well, keep yer shirt on," Hanley huffed, slightly unnerved by his companion's detached behavior. "Mebbe after it's all done I'll let you cut up the bodies."  
  
Dark Sun didn't look at him, but Hanley still saw an anticipatory smile creep across his lips as he stared at the traveling figures.  
  
Hanley couldn't help laughing at his expression. "Damn, boy, I wish I could figure out why you like killin' so much."  
  
"The Spirits bid me to slay, and I slay," was the languorous reply, as if it was obvious. "It is the only way they will leave me in peace."  
  
The older man coughed. "Yeah, well, too bad them spirits can't carry a gun, else we could get this taken care of a whole lot sooner."  
  
They began to walk back to the horses.  
  
"We can keep an eye on 'em while we're ridin' to meet Trent an' the others," Hanley said as he mounted up. "If we hang far enough back even Tanner shouldn't be able to spot us. Once we get the men an' the chance, we'll finish 'em off and head south for good."  
  
"Perhaps we should collect the bounty on Tanner," Dark Sun offered as they began to ride off.  
  
Hanley grunted. "Yeah, that's an idea-an extra five hundred dollars wouldn't hurt. But that means you can't cut his face up, or else we'll never get them to believe it's Tanner. Think you can promise me that?"  
  
Dark Sun said nothing as they rode into the rocky hills.  
  
  
"I told you, Senor Wilmington, I know nothing about her except for her name!"  
  
Inez's voice was soft but insistent as she hustled about serving drinks and wiping down the counter in the busy saloon she had just acquired. She barely threw a glance at Buck's handsome form now leaning against the bar, his eyes bright with curiosity and seemingly oblivious to the elbows of the patrons around him.  
  
"Aw c'mon now, Inez-"  
  
She tossed him a scalding look. "It is Senorita Roscios to you, Senor, until you improve your manners or offer a proposal."  
  
"One thing at a time, darlin'!" Buck grinned. She sighed, rolled her eyes and returned to work.  
  
"Look," he continued, sliding off of the barstool to follow her as she darted back and forth between the counter and the tables, "I already asked at Dan's, he said she didn't come there. So you're my only hope of findin' out who that poor workin' gal is."  
  
"She said her name was Molly Havers," Inez replied in a terse, distracted tone as she hefted several empty glasses onto a tray, "and that she was looking for a place to stay and work. I told her she could work here if she pleased, it was none of my concern, but that all of my rooms were rented."  
  
"Yeah, but-"  
  
Inez sighed and shoved the tray of glasses into Buck's hands. "Here, Senor-if you are going to buzz around me like a bee, you may at least make yourself useful."  
  
She saw that the bartender was becoming swamped again and hurried back to the bar, Buck trailing after her.  
  
"Yeah, but did she say where she was goin'? To th' boardin' house or – "  
  
"Hey, sonny!" a drunken voice drawled from nearby. Buck looked down to see a swaying railroad worker seated at his elbow. "Gimme another glassa beer!"  
  
"You 'sonny' me again, friend, an' you'll be drinkin' that beer through your nose," Buck said in a friendly voice before hustling off after Inez. The worker scowled after him and stared forlornly at his empty glass.  
  
"He ain't too friendly, is 'e?"  
  
The worker started a bit and looked around, his blurred vision finally settling on a thin figure standing nearby, an older man clad in what looked like a castoff Confederate uniform. He chuckled.  
  
"Aah, they're all that way. No time for us workin' stiffs," he groused.   
  
The other man smiled a bit and sat down, pouring some of the beer from the bottle in his hand into the worker's glass. "They are, huh? Here, it's on me," he said with a half-toothed smile. "And who are 'they'?"  
  
"Hey, thanks, mister!" the other man slurred in surprise. "Aaah, that whole crew, the 'peacekeepers' ol' Travis hired to protect this cowshit town. Hah!" He spat bitterly before downing the drink.  
  
"He's one of 'em, huh?" his companion said, eying Buck closely. "Oh – name's Will Foster. Folks call me Gray."  
  
"Paul McVey," was the smiling, bleary reply. "Folks call me-uh, Paul."  
  
"Well, Paul," Gray smiled, pouring some more of the beer into McVey's glass, "I never heard of no town with more'n one sheriff. Exactly how many of these peacekeepers are there?"  
  
McVey belched and wiggled his fingers, a confused look on his face as if he was trying to work out the sum in his head. "Uuuuh-six. No, seven, seven. But he's all that's left now, I heard the rest took some guy out somewhere. Damn, that's good beer."  
  
"There's only one peacekeeper left in town?" Gray said with some astonishment. "Guess they better hope nothing happens, huh? Heh!"  
  
"In this town? Not likely, old man," McVey grunted.   
  
Gray's eyes flashed a little but his smile stayed on his weathered face.  
  
McVey's red eyes traveled over Gray's coat. "Hey, was you in th' Reb army, Greg?"  
  
"That's Gray, friend," Gray replied, drawing himself up proudly and fingering his coat. "Yep, served in the last year of the war. Wanted to 'fore that, but they didn't have no use for a ol' man like me til all the young ones was used up."  
  
"Huh," McVey grunted, idly rolling his empty beer glass on the table. "You should meet this fella, Ezra Standish. He's a Reb, too. Great fella fer cards an' dressin', has this fancy red coat an' this gold tooth. He's one o' them peacekeepers too."   
  
"Well, this here's the only color jacket any true Southerner oughta wear," Gray affirmed with a nod as he tugged at his tattered coat. "Now, my friend, I'm a stranger to these parts, an' you bein' so familiar with things round here, mebbe you could show me around a bit."  
  
McVey looked at Gray for a minute, then laughed. "For another bottle o' beer, Reb, I'll give ya the damn grand tour. Do ya need a place to stay? There's a roomin' house up th' street. That's where Wilmington – " he jerked a thumb at Buck, who was now nursing a beer alone at the bar and keeping a sharp eye on the door – " lives, come t'think of it, so at least you'd be safe, with one o' them gunmen livin' there."  
  
"The only lawkeeper in town lives there, huh?" Gray said, studying Buck with narrow eyes. "Yeah, friend. I s'pose that'd suit me just fine."  
  
  
  
The afternoon sun filtered through the dusty, narrow streets of Sutler's Forge as its inhabitants went through the motions of another day. Few of the citizens of the small mining town spared any attention to the trio of riders as they meandered down the road, glancing through the crowd for likely hired guns.  
  
"See any likely prospects?" Trent asked as they ambled along. A few of the girls were noticing his handsome features and well–cut, though faded, clothes, and waving at him. He smiled and winked in their direction, enjoying the attention.  
  
"Look like a bunch of damn sheep to me," Pony said sourly. "Typical scrawny farmers an' yella shopkeepers."  
  
"Damn, I'm hungry," Stan muttered through his thick black beard, rubbing his stomach with one huge hand. He had doffed his convict clothes for more subdued, though just as ragged, ordinary wear.  
  
Trent sighed. "Yeah, I could do with a bite myself. Guess we'll have to do the honest thing an' pay for it this time."  
  
Pony nodded. "There's a saloon over there. Bet they got food."  
  
They all looked up the street, to where a large hanging sign proclaimed the establishment of the Dancing Dog saloon and restaurant. A few patrons could be seen coming and going, mostly rough–looking types.   
  
A smile slowly spread across Trent's face. "Yeah, they got food. An' plenty of toughs lookin' for a buck too, I bet."  
  
"Good a place as any to look," Stan agreed.  
  
"Yeah," Trent said absently, as if he were deep in thought. "An' I bet I know how we can find the best of 'em to join us." Then, "Hey, Pony, you go get some supplies from the general store. We're gonna be needin' bullets."  
  
"The store?" Pony asked. "I thought we was goin' to the saloon."  
  
"Dammit, girl, do as you're told!" Trent snapped. Pony's eyes blazed and she went for the gun strapped to her side, stopping just short of pulling it out.  
  
"Don't you order me around, Trent," she snarled, her expression deadly. "I don't much take to that."  
  
Trent looked at her and laughed. "Jesus, Pony, calm down for God's sake."  
  
She hesitated, then straightened, still eying him warily.  
  
"I just got an idea, that's all," Trent continued as they rode on. "An' I don't need no arguments right now. So get that skinny little ass of yours to the store an' then meet us outside of town when you're done."  
  
Pony scowled at him, puzzled. "Well, where are you guys goin'?"  
  
Trent smiled in reply. "Oh, we're going to the saloon," he said casually, "to start a fight."  
  
  
Ezra sighed as he sat back in the Dancing Dog saloon, raising a whiskey glass to his lips as he surveyed the room. It was a dim, narrow little place, only a quarter of the size of the Four Corners saloon, with dirty green walls and a long dark counter running along the side wall over which huddled a tawdry collection of inebriated patrons.   
  
Despite the small size and grim interior, the crowd was surprisingly lively, much more raucous than Ezra had encountered lately. He frowned as he finished the whiskey; he was finally liberated of Four Corners and the men who had betrayed him. He was back in his element, in a brand new environment through which he could move unimpeded by senseless thoughts of morality. There was no one looking over his shoulder here, judging his every move and expecting him to play by the rules. He was free again, as if Four Corners had never happened, living the life he had known for years.  
  
Then why did it feel so wrong?  
  
He frowned to himself as he absently shuffled his cards, his green eyes not really seeing anything as he sat in thought. For years he had traveled from bar to bar, saloon to saloon, cantina to cantina – he'd always been able to sit in any place where a game was being played, and call it home. He'd done it with the saloon at Four Corners, too. But now, the atmosphere seemed to hold an eerie displaced quality, as if some part of him knew he wasn't supposed to be there. But that was nonsense – where else did he belong?  
  
He shook the feeling off, or tried to. It was his own fault, really, he decided, he'd gotten complacent and stayed in one place too long. He'd lost his traveling skills. Well, he'd soon have them back. He could no longer call the Four Corners saloon home, now, could he? His mother and the others had seen to that. Best to forget it and move on.   
  
Even if it did seem odd to drink a whiskey without listening to Buck's hearty laugh, or JD's awful jokes. Even if he did expect to see Vin or Chris lounging quietly nearby, watching it all with wordless vigilance. Ezra pursed his lips, and told himself he'd get used to it.  
  
"Card game, mister?"  
  
Slightly startled, Ezra glanced up to see a young dark – haired man in fine but shabby clothing standing beside him. Quickly putting away his pensive mood, Ezra flashed a bright smile and picked up the deck of cards which had been lying ignored in front of him.  
  
"I'm never one to turn down a challenge, my young friend," Ezra said smoothly as the cards flew effortlessly between his nimble fingers. "Which game of chance did you have in mind?"  
  
The dapper stranger shrugged as he plopped into the seat opposite Ezra and pushed back the battered silk top hat on his head. "Hell, it don't matter to me. Draw poker's fine."  
  
"Very well." Ezra finished shuffling, reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin, laying it on the table between them. "We'll make the ante at four bits."  
  
His opponent leaned back as he dug around in his coat for a moment before producing a similar coin, tossing it casually onto the wooden surface. "I'm in. You ain't from around here, huh?"  
  
Ezra smiled indulgently as his Southern voice drawled, "What tipped you off?"  
  
The other man laughed a little as Ezra dealt the cards. "Well, your Reb voice for one. An' the fact you actually got some style for two. Wish I could lay my hands on a red coat like that."  
  
The dealing finished, Ezra gracefully picked up his hand, saying, "Well, you may get the chance to win it off my back if Lady Luck is against me. I myself won it – "  
  
"THERE YOU ARE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"  
  
All heads, including Ezra's, turned to see a huge man with a scraggly black beard and mustache standing at the saloon doors, his ugly face red with fury. For one shocked moment Ezra thought the new arrival was staring at him; then he realized that it was his partner who was in danger.  
  
"Oh, shit!" the young man said, throwing down his hand.  
  
The large man barreled into the bar, shoving drunken men aside as he plowed his way to their table. He towered over both of them as he stood eying Ezra's partner with barely contained fury.  
  
The young man seemed only annoyed. "What do you want, Jack?"  
  
"We ain't finished our business," was the furious reply as the aggressor curled his hands into huge, meaty fists.  
  
Ezra put out a hand, trying to calm things down before anyone – including himself – got hurt. "Now gentlemen, surely – "  
  
The huge man shot him a lethal stare. "Who's the sissy?"  
  
Ezra blinked and drew himself up, insulted but unsure what to do about it, as the man appeared highly dangerous.  
  
Jack – that seemed to be the young man's name – scowled at the intruder. "For God's sake go away, Frank. I told you I never touched your sister."  
  
"That ain't what she says!" the huge man bellowed back, and gave Jack's shoulder a firm shove.  
  
There was a loud metallic clicking sound, and both Jack and Frank turned surprised eyes to the source of the sound. Ezra was sitting calmly watching them, his right hand gripping the small Derringer he'd been hiding up his sleeve.  
  
"I believe you were told to go away," Ezra said in an even voice as he stared at Frank. "I'd advise you to comply, unless you'd like a sissy bullet in your behind."  
  
There was a pause, and Ezra noticed that both men were regarding him with the same expression. They looked impressed, although by what exactly Ezra couldn't tell. Then the expressions swiftly changed; Frank grabbed Jack by his worn lapels and hauled him out of his chair. With a mighty heave he swung him at Ezra, causing both men to collapse to the ground with a crash as the table flipped over, sending cards and drinks flying through the air. As they fell the Derringer discharged, the bullet shattering a corner of the already cracked mirror above the bar.  
  
As Ezra struggled to stand, he saw Jack had already gotten back on his feet and was actively attacking his much larger adversary. Other men stepped in to separate them, but they soon found themselves targets as the combatants turned on them as well. The rowdy patrons cheered and laughed as the punches flew, and the aggression soon spread among the entire population of the saloon.  
  
Ezra finally gained his feet. He sighed as he pushed the Derringer back into his sleeve and pulled his hat down.  
  
"Aw, hell," he muttered, and dove into the fray to find his card – playing partner.  
  
Fists, beer bottles, pieces of broken chairs and various unidentifiable objects were flying in all directions, and Ezra was clipped a few times as he waded through the tangled mess of battling humanity. He was able to deflect all blows, and punched more than one attacker out as they tried to drag him down.  
  
Finally he spied the young man, who had been hauled off by the huge beast who had started this whole fracas. They were in a corner, exchanging blows in an animated manner. Ezra began to rush to his aid – he felt he should at least protect a fellow gamesman – then something made him pause. He studied them for a moment, ducked a spittoon which went flying by his head, and then approached the two men in a calm manner which was at variance with the chaos surrounding him.  
  
"I believe it is time we quit this establishment," Ezra announced to his partner, who was actively being throttled. "May I assist you in overthrowing this Goliath?"  
  
"It's under control," the young dandy gasped, and ferociously kneed his opponent in the groin. The huge man went down with a surprised groan, and Ezra, seeing his chance, grabbed the young man's arm and dragged him out through the back door. As he closed it he heard the sound of a bottle shattering against the other side, which would have struck his head had he hesitated a moment longer.  
  
They found themselves in a back alley, a deserted area littered with discarded barrels and bits of garbage. The young man was panting heavily and trying to adjust his disheveled finery.  
  
"Whew!" he breathed with a huge grin. "Thanks, friend. That was quite a scene, wasn't it? Did you see where my hat went?"  
  
Ezra was standing quite calmly, eying the other man with intense suspicion. "I believe your associate will be bringing it out to you, 'Jack' – if that is your real name."  
  
Jack scowled at him as he buttoned up his shirt, which had been pulled loose in the fray. "What the devil are you talking about? You mean Frank?"  
  
An exasperated sigh escaped Ezra's lips as he walked towards the other man, a bored expression on his dusty face. "Indeed, if his name is really Frank – which I doubt about as much as I do your identity. Exactly what was that charade in there all about?"  
  
Jack seemed thrown for a second, then assumed an air of insult. "I don't know what you mean, mister. You saw that lummox – he attacked me."  
  
Ezra's lips twitched into a bemused, skeptical smile. "If a man that size truly wanted to injure you, I hardly think you'd be in any condition to have this conversation."  
  
Jack's eyes flashed. He started to say something, but Ezra held up his hand.  
  
"Never mind, young man. I've learned enough in my profession to know a scam when I see one, but I am hardly interested enough to wait around for the real story. If your aim in this enterprise was to destroy the bar, then I must say you've succeeded admirably. I can hardly wait to see which of this town's businesses you and your friend assault next. Good day."  
  
He tipped his hat to the flummoxed young man and walked away.  
  
"Hey, hold it!"  
  
Ezra knew he shouldn't, but he stopped and turned around, eying the other man with mute expectance.  
  
The young man approached him, his clothing now smoothed out but his face writhing in confusion. "I – how'd you know?"  
  
Ezra smiled slightly. "I used to work a boxing scam as a youth, where I learned how to pull a punch. You and your partner were doing the same thing – I had no trouble recognizing it. Just a word of advice – if you want your audience to believe you're fighting, it's generally wise to get a little bloody."  
  
He patted the bewildered young man on the shoulder and turned to go when his way was blocked by the large man, who was now accompanied by two rough – looking men from the bar.  
  
The large man pointed at Ezra. "He with us?"  
  
His partner shrugged. "Actually, Stan, we haven't gotten that far."  
  
Stan blinked. "Oh. Well, these two guys say they're in. Here's your hat." He handed the young man the silk top hat, now a little dented and dusty but still intact.  
  
"Damn!" the other man said in dismay as he looked at it, beating the crown a few times with his palms to knock the dirt off. As he put it back on his head he looked at Ezra with admiration. "Well, I must say, mister, you did a good job seeing past our little job. I'm Trent, this here is Stan."  
  
Ezra looked from one to the other. "Ezra Standish. Charmed, I'm sure. Is there a reason I should give a damn who you gentlemen are?"  
  
"Several little gold reasons, I'd say," Trent said with a smile, putting his hands on his belt. "How'd you like to make some money with that fast trigger finger and quick wit of yours?"  
  
Ezra started, and glanced at them all for a moment, slightly stunned. Good Lord, he thought, this is how it all started before – a temporary job for a few dollars, which had turned into something more. At least, he thought it had. Amazing, that two such opportunities would come along in his lifetime. But this time he knew what to say.  
  
"I'm sorry, my fine friends," Ezra said aloud with a sigh, "but my days as a hired gun are over." He turned and began to walk quickly away, determined to untangle himself as soon as possible. He pushed through the two men standing next to Stan without looking at them.  
  
"Oh, now, come on," Trent pleaded as he ran behind him, trying to catch up. "It's just for a few days, and there's fifty dollars in gold in it for you."  
  
Ezra stopped, the amount catching his attention. Fifty dollars? Slowly he turned to face them, his green eyes sharp.  
  
"Do you have it on you?" he asked in a low voice.  
  
Trent dug into the pocket of his ratty coat, producing a small leather bag. "There's twenty–five here. Half now, half when we're done. I saw how you handled yourself in there, I know you're worth it. Fifty dollars for a few days' work – not a bad sum these days." He held the bag out towards him with a clinking sound. "Yours if you want it."  
  
Ezra's mind whirled. He really didn't want to get involved again, with anyone. And whatever these men wanted his gun for was almost certainly illegal. But – fifty dollars would certainly aid in his saloon fund, and he desperately needed the money. And what did the legality matter, anyway? He'd learned that even 'honest' men couldn't be trusted. These specimens could hardly be worse.  
  
"What exactly will you be needing my services for?" he asked warily.  
  
Trent smiled. "I'll let our boss explain that. If you aren't interested, then you can go, with twenty bucks in gold for your trouble."  
  
Ezra looked them all over very carefully. It sounded tempting, and it would be one way to have some company while traveling across the desert. A small voice protested the obviously illicit nature of the situation, but he ignored it. This had been his life before he had met Larabee and the others, and he had to get used to it again if he was to survive. He could worry about the morals after he was rich.  
  
"Very well," he said.  
  
Trent smiled. "Great," the young man said as he pocketed the bag again. "You'll get the money after you've heard our plan and decide you want in. Now let's go."  
  
They began walking, down the back alleyways towards the edge of town. As the buildings petered out, Ezra saw a very young girl standing with several horses behind the last structure, waiting.  
  
"'Bout damn time," he heard her mutter in a sore tone. He studied her closely; she couldn't have been more than sixteen, but the sullen glare she gave him indicated a soul which was far older, and already full of bitterness. He was taken aback at such an expression in one so young, and felt a stab of sadness in his heart on her behalf.  
  
"Oh, stop complaining, we had work to do," Trent said casually. "Pony, this here's Ezra Standish."  
  
Ezra tried to smile at her, but found he couldn't; there was something in those angry eyes which killed any attempt at even superficial kindness. So he simply nodded at her, and was not surprised when his gesture met with a blank, suspicious stare.  
  
"An' this is Mark an' Lew," Stan said, jabbing a thick thumb at the two men behind him. She glanced at them as well, and sighed.  
  
"Great, three more mouths to feed," she said with disgust as she swung up onto her horse.  
  
"Aw c'mon now darlin'," Trent said in a playful voice as he mounted up, "you're forgettin' the fun part."  
  
She glared at him briefly, and a shiver ran through Ezra when he considered what the 'fun part' must consist of.  
  
"You men go get your horses an' meet us at the fork in the river," Trent was saying. "We'll fill you in there."  
  
With that, the three of them whirled and rode off. Mark and Lew chuckled at each other and walked away.  
  
"Goddamn, can you believe it? Fifty bucks!" said one.  
  
"They must be bank robbers or somethin'," the other mused.  
  
"Hell, who cares. Be some excitement anyways, an' I ain't above breakin' the law for money like that."  
  
"You said it! It's the only way a fella can get rich these days."  
  
"Wonder if that gal's a fringe benefit? Heh!"  
  
The other man burst out laughing. Neither of them had noticed Ezra walking silently behind them, rubbing his chin with one finger as he sank deep into thought. The expression of ancient anger on that girl's face haunted him – she was only a child, what was she doing with these men? And what could have happened to her to so totally destroy any traces of youthful joy she must have once possessed?  
  
He knew he should concentrate on the money, it was all that was important here. He'd learned too well not to open his heart to anyone. This wouldn't be like his last stab at employment; he was only in it for himself, and when it was over he'd be riding away for good. The young girl's plight tugged at his sympathies, surely, but he couldn't afford to be concerned. He had his own life to watch out for.  
  
As they mounted their horses and rode towards the river, Ezra squared his jaw and steeled his soul, determined to view this as just another step on his journey, to be forgotten the moment he moved on.  
  
A small corner of his heart, however, whispered to him that it would not be that easy.  
  
  
  
Buck whistled to himself as he stepped out of his rented room and carefully locked the door behind him. A heady sense of optimism buoyed his spirits; today, he promised himself, he was going to find Molly Havers and let her get a taste of the Wilmington charm. Inez had been no help, but then Buck had never needed anyone's help when it came to women. He could do this on his own.  
  
He pocketed his key and trotted down the worn wooden stairs. Wonder how Chris an' them are doin', he thought as he came down into the small dingy room which served as the boarding house's parlor. Sure hope they don't run into any trouble...  
  
The parlor was usually empty at this time of day, but Buck saw a new face standing at the table where Mrs. Miller conducted business. It was an older man, skinny and grizzled, dressed in a threadbare gray jacket which looked to Buck as if it were of Confederate make. They must have just been finishing up, for Buck saw the thin old woman hand hand the stranger a key.  
  
Curious, he walked up to the table, studying the new arrival. "Afternoon, Mrs. Miller. Got yourself a new resident?"  
  
She glanced at him, a thin smile on her sharp face. "This is Mr. Adams. He's taking the room across from yours."  
  
"That a fact?" Buck replied with a slight smile. There was something about this guy that he didn't like, but he couldn't put his finger on it.  
  
"Yes it is, mister," Adams said brightly, a pleased smile on his fleshy, stubbled face. "Hope that don't put you out none."  
  
"Me? Aw, hell no," Buck said, forcing a laugh. "Always happy t'have new folks come t'town. Where you from?"  
  
Adams shoved his key in his pocket. "Oh – all around. Heard tell you're the law here."  
  
"Just part of it, friend," Buck replied. "But if you got any trouble just come get ol' Buck an' I'll do what I can for ya."  
  
The other man gave him a very keen look, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks, mister."  
  
Buck gave his arm a friendly whap. "Anytime, friend. 'Scuse me."  
  
He stepped out into the street, unaware of the penetrating gaze which followed him. The man in gray studied Buck for a few more moments, then picked up his saddlebags and went up to his room.  
  
  
The sun was beginning to set as Ezra and his traveling companions neared the end of their ride. It had been an uneventful trip, and Ezra had stayed silent for most of it, content to observe the situation and figure out his place in it, if any.   
  
The other two new hires were excited and gregarious, talking with anticipation over the new venture. Despite their entreaties, Trent, the dandy with the top hat, refused to give them any more information on what the job was all about. However, he was more than willing to divulge with pride the number of men he'd shot, and soon the trio were exchanging tales of their prowess with a gun with bloodthirsty zeal.  
  
Stan, the huge mustached man, said little other than the occasionally voiced complaint that he was getting hungry, and how even in prison he'd gotten more square meals than he did now. Trent's reply had been that if Stan wanted to be back in prison he would be more than happy to turn him in, which had effectively put an end to the escaped convict's laments.  
  
Ezra had noticed that the girl Pony was riding silently at the back of the group, and he guided Chaucer to ride beside her, hoping to draw her out in conversation. Purely out of curiosity, he told himself.  
  
"Your friends seem to be in a testy mood," he observed, nodding at Stan and Trent.  
  
Pony snorted and gave him a glare. "They ain't my friends. I just ride with 'em."  
  
"Hm," Ezra muttered, a bitter reflection rising in his mind. "I sympathize with your plight, my dear."  
  
She eyed him sharply. "What's a plight?"  
  
"Your situation," he smiled. "The fact that you must trust your back to someone who does not have your best interests at heart." He gave a rueful shake of his head. "I've discovered that unfortunate feeling, believe me."  
  
Pony grunted as she spurred on her horse. "Well, that's too bad, mister, but don't waste no pity on me. Hell, I ain't trusted no one since I was a little kid."  
  
To hear such hard words from someone so young caused Ezra's heart to twinge just a little. "A tragedy, to be sure," he said quietly, thinking on his own lonely childhood.  
  
She looked at him and shrugged. "Ain't no tragedy. Just the way things are," she said in a resigned tone, and kicked her horse into a gallop. As she trotted away, Ezra looked after her, trying to keep himself from giving a damn what happened to her. He had to be careful not to care again.  
  
They topped a small, rocky rise, and the river plain came into view, the narrow waters diverging and spreading out to their separate destinations. Two riders were there already, their camp marked by a small fire which flickered in the setting sunlight. Must be the rest of our merry band, Ezra mused as they picked their way towards the figures. Let's see what this is all about.  
  
As they rode up, he could see that Trent and Stan had already dismounted and were speaking with one of the two men, a large burly fellow with red hair and a beard wearing a long tan duster. After a few words, this man gave Ezra and his traveling companions a sharp look, his round face serious and suspicious.   
  
"You the guns Trent hired?" the man snapped.  
  
Ezra reined in. "If the job is as agreeable as the money offered, then I believe I can answer in the affirmative."  
  
The bearded stranger gave Ezra an angry glare and shook his head.  
  
"Great, another smart–ass," he muttered, walking around their horses. "Go get yourselves some coffee. Then we'll talk."  
  
Soon they were all gathered around the fire, Ezra holding a battered tin cup of a substance which could only loosely be termed coffee. The bearded man was standing and pacing back and forth in front of them, fiddling with a riding whip as he spoke.  
  
"Okay, here's the deal," he said in a firm, explanatory tone. "We're ridin' after some men who've crossed us an' need takin' care of. You feel like helpin' us out, you get the money when we're through."  
  
One of the other hired guns, Lew, perked up. "Sounds right good ter me. I ain't kilt nobody in quite a while, an' I been gettin' restless."  
  
The other man looked less certain. "Hey, if you're talkin' about murderin' folks, I ain't in for that. I thought this was gonna be a holdup or somethin'."  
  
The man stopped, flexing the whip, his eyes glinting in the orange firelight. "If all goes as we want, yeah, there'll be some killin'. If ya ain't got the stomach for it now's the time to run."  
  
Ezra sat still, thinking as he looked at the hulking figure. This was a mistake, he thought; this group was out for blood, and he did not want to involve himself in someone else's vendetta. Besides, he did not fancy himself to be the sort of cold–hearted killer these people obviously were – including, sadly, the girl.   
  
He was just about to voice his concerns when Mark, the other hired gun, took a deep breath and stood up. "Well, then, I'll say goodbye to ya. I don't want no part of this."  
  
The burly man eyed him carefully. "Then you'd best git. An' don't tell nobody or you're dead."  
  
Mark laughed as he stepped toward his horse. "Hell, I won't. I'm a wanted man myself, I don't truck with the law. Just don't want no more blood on my hands." He paused, then glanced at Trent. "I still get twenty dollars, right?"  
  
Trent smothered a smile, reached into his pocket and tossed a small leather bag at Mark. "Sure, friend. There ya go."  
  
Mark caught the bag, walked quickly to his horse and mounted, as the rest of the group watched in silence. He touched the beast's sides with his spur, and began trotting away into the twilight, the bag of coins jingling faintly as he rode.   
  
Ezra was watching him go, wondering if he should follow him, when a loud explosion caused him to jump. Mark tumbled off of his horse with a cry as a bullet tore through his back, his body landing in the hot dust with a lifeless thud. He lay still as his horse skittered nervously, spooked by the noise and the loss of its master.  
  
Startled, Ezra turned to see the bearded man holstering his gun, his expression grim as he examined the dead man's motionless form. The other men seemed highly amused; Trent was on the verge of laughing aloud.  
  
Ezra swallowed, all thoughts of leaving now gone. "I see you have no compunction against shooting men in the back," he said quietly.  
  
The burly man looked at him for a moment, then burst into hearty laughter.  
  
"I'll shoot yella cowards anyplace I want," he declared. "Dark Sun!"  
  
Another figure stepped silently into the firelight, a slight young man in buckskins with long blonde hair and a blank expression. Ezra's skin crawled at how severe and haunted he appeared, and how he seemed to move without making a sound. The new arrival stood without speaking, gazing expectantly at the man in the tan duster.  
  
"Go bury that carcass," the man said, jerking his head towards the dead man. "If he really was a wanted man, maybe we can get a few bucks for the body before we go to Mexico. And you know what that means – no mutilation!"  
  
As these words were spoken, Trent sidled up to the corpse and nonchalantly retrieved the small bag of money, humming with a smile as he jammed it into his pocket and sauntered away. The blonde youth disappeared, and the bearded man turned to address them once again, his eyes studying each man closely. Ezra was sitting up now, every nerve wary; he had no idea what this was all about, but he felt a good deal of sympathy for whoever it was this man had a grudge against.   
  
"Okay, well, we got seven, that's a pretty good number, it should be enough. I'll give you the details when the time comes, but for now all you need to know is, my name's Hanley. An' you're gonna help me teach some stuck–up gunmen a very, very hard lesson."  
  
"Sounds good t'me," Lew chuckled. "We campin' here tonight?"  
  
"Yup," Trent said with a grin as he came forward, a saddlebag slung over one dusty shoulder. "We got a few extra bedrolls if ya ain't got one. Just pick a spot."  
  
He moved off to talk to Hanley, and Ezra went to unsaddle his horse, his mind spinning. He was getting a very bad feeling about this situation, but escape seemed foolhardy at the moment – perhaps he could slip away later when no one was looking. The fifty dollars did not seem quite as attractive as it used to.  
  
Why was that, he wondered as he undid Chaucer's saddle. He'd been around men like these all his life, they'd never bothered him before. They were like all of the usual cutthroats and reprobates in every saloon he'd gambled in. Before he could look on their actions with a jaundiced eye, accepting that all men were like this, and feeling no reason to believe any different. It was the way he'd lived his whole life.  
  
So why was it so hard to be among them now, he mused as he plopped his heavy, dusty saddle on the ground. So they were outlaws – what did he care? All men were heartless and self – serving, out for only themselves. Some were simply more honest about it than others. Ezra had always believed that, and now he had more reason to think that way than ever.   
  
But for some reason the conviction was not as strong as it used to be...  
  
"Dinner's ready."  
  
Ezra jumped a little and looked up from where he'd been brushing down Chaucer. Pony was standing on the other side of the horse, her hard eyes glittering in the twilight.  
  
He regained his composure and nodded. "Thank you. You're certainly a fast cook."  
  
She shrugged. "Any fool can cook beans," she muttered, and walked away towards the campfire. Ezra put down the brush, watching her with heartbroken amazement. Only a child, and already she had the look of a seasoned outlaw.  
  
Dinner was eaten quickly, and afterwards each member of the group prepared to bed down. As Ezra looked over the ground and tried to find where the fewest rocks and scrub bushes were, he noticed a dark figure riding briskly around the camp, and recognized it to be the silent blonde-haired young man.  
  
"Your associate is certainly active this evening," he remarked to Stan, who was walking by with his bedroll.  
  
The huge man shivered. "That there's Dark Sun. You seen him earlier, the skinny kid with the long blonde hair. He don't sleep much so Hanley has him patrollin' for the law."  
  
"A member of the night owl persuasion, hm?" Ezra noted, unrolling his bedding. There was a pause, then Stan crouched down beside Ezra, his voice low.  
  
"Look, mister, lemme give you some advice," he said, glancing around. "You gotta take Dark Sun seriously. Whatever you do, don't get him mad at you. He ain't right in the head. Killed the Indian family that raised 'im when he was only a kid an' he's been killin' ever since. Says he hears spirits tellin' 'im to do it, whatever that means. So just stay out of his way."  
  
Ezra gave the former convict a calm look. "That should be easy enough. I plan to only be in your fair company for a day or two."  
  
"Huh." Stan rose, shifting his bedroll on his shoulder. "Thing is, if Dark Sun don't like you, you'll find yourself in his way sooner or later. He'll make sure of it."  
  
With that, Stan walked off. Ezra sighed; this really was turning out to be a bad idea, but he didn't dare try to ride off if there was a psychotic killer standing guard. He'd figure another way out of this.  
  
Footsteps caught his attention, and he looked up to see Pony standing in front of him as he knelt on the ground.  
  
"Need anythin'?" she asked in a flat tone.  
  
He grunted as he brushed of the bedroll. "Other than a nice, warm featherbed, no, thank you, my dear."  
  
She shrugged. "Suit yourself," she muttered, and walked away. Ezra frowned as he watched her; that was certainly odd, he thought. When he looked up again, he saw that she was now standing with Lew, the other hired gun.  
  
"How 'bout you?" she was asking him.  
  
Lew was unrolling his own bedding as well, and seemed puzzled as he glanced up at the young girl. "What's that, gal?"  
  
"Your friend over there didn't need nothin'," she replied without emotion. "Hanley wanted me t'ask both of you, as you're new an' all."  
  
A grin spread over Lew's dirty face. "You offerin' me somethin', gal?"  
  
Pony shrugged, as if it meant nothing to her. "Just what the other men get. You interested?"  
  
Lew gave a small whoop. "Hell yes! Just lemme get myself ready."  
  
Ezra felt his blood go cold. It was bad enough that this child was living the life of a hard – bitten outlaw, but he could not abide the thought that she was prostituting herself so casually as well.  
  
Pony was leaning against one of the rocks, arms folded, patiently waiting for Lew to prepare himself, when Ezra approached her. She barely glanced at him.  
  
He tapped the brim of his hat with one finger. "Excuse me, Miss – um – "  
  
She stared at him. "Name's Pony."  
  
"Yes," Ezra said quickly, "is your, shall we say, offer still valid?"  
  
"Sure," she said shortly, glancing behind her at Lew, who was struggling with the buttons of his shirt. "I'll be with you soon as I'm done with this feller."  
  
Ezra forced a smile, though his stomach was turning over. "I must insist on the whole night."  
  
"Yeah?" She leaned back, appraising him in the campfire's glow. "You must be one hell of a guy. Even Trent gets wore out after a while."  
  
Lew suddenly appeared, shirtless and slightly irritated. "What's goin' on here?"  
  
"I was simply negotiating for the young lady's services," Ezra replied. His green eyes studied the man closely; he was short, stocky, unshaven, with a full, dull– eyed face and short, dirty brown hair. Ezra's instincts told him Pony could expect rough treatment at Lew's hands.  
  
"Oh you were, huh?" Lew retorted, and grabbed Pony's arm tightly. "She's already taken. Go get your own gal."  
  
Pony wrenched free and drove one small fist forcefully into Lew's stomach. Caught off guard, Lew gasped out in pained surprise and fell to his knees grabbing his stomach, his eyes large with amazement.  
  
"It's up t'me who I'm with tonight," Pony snarled at Lew, her eyes blazing, "an' I'm goin' with this guy. He smells better'n you."  
  
Ezra smiled, trying not to let his relief show too much. "A wise choice, my dear."  
  
They walked away, leaving Lew gasping on the ground and staring after both of them in bewildered disappointment.  
  
  
  
Vin rode slowly across the rough desert ground, his keen blue eyes watching for any trouble that might strike while Chris and the others set up camp for the night. It was a beautiful warm evening, and the blue – black sky overhead was studded with the brilliance of countless stars. As Vin gazed around him at the silent landscape, he breathed a quiet, regretful sigh; if only such tranquility could find his soul on this journey.  
  
He glanced behind him at the dancing orange light which marked where their   
camp was. In that glow, he knew, his friends were going about the business of undoing sleeping rolls and cooking dinner. A warm, emotional sensation rolled over him, so strong that tears started in his eyes; if only he could tell them what it meant to him, to know that there were now men willing to fight by his side to win him his freedom. It was a heady thought for a man used to fighting his battles on his own.  
  
He spurred Sire onward, lost in thought as the horse's hooves crunched over the dry desert grass. He had always worked better alone; buffalo and bounty hunting were not exactly group activities. He'd always assumed it was his fate to be a solitary man, that being bound to others would be an unwelcome hindrance. When the lawkeeping job at Four Corners came along, he wondered if he could tolerate the confines of such a situation. He had anticipated, at best, an uncomfortable alliance.  
  
Vin lifted his head and gazed at the sky, letting the soft moonlight fall   
upon his face as the warm breeze tugged lightly at his long curls. He had no   
idea when they had become more than just a group of men hired to watch the   
town; it must have happened gradually, somewhere in the shared pain and   
spilled blood. Perhaps it was just some sentimental invention of his secret   
poet's soul, but Vin knew that at some point, a bond had been formed between   
them, intangible but as real as the strongest chain. It had seen them   
through numerous scrapes and battles, had brought them together even when   
they'd been pulled apart. Now it was bearing them along to an uncertain   
fate, as Tascosa loomed ever closer.  
  
Vin pressed his lips together, anger welling in him as he guided Sire   
across a dry creek bed. Just as he had seen this bond formed, he had also   
seen its near destruction, many times. It had almost died in its cradle,   
when Buck and Josiah were terribly wounded at the Seminole village. Chris   
had nearly died in a hellhole prison. There had been too many shootouts to   
count; the one in which Eli Joe had died was only the latest. But they had   
all been there, side by side, fighting to protect Vin's best chance at   
freedom. Vin felt both gratitude and pain rise in him at the memory; it so   
easily might have ended in more than one death.  
  
He looked at the dark shadows moving against the firelight in the distance;   
one of them was Chris. Vin's heart twinged; he knew Chris felt guilty for   
killing Eli Joe, despite Vin's insistence that he knew Chris did it to save   
his life. Chris had enough burdens to bear, and it pained the tracker to   
know that he had been the cause of even more grief to Chris's heart. But   
that, at least, would eventually heal, especially if they could get Yates to   
admit it Eli Joe's confession. There was another thought which troubled Vin   
even more.  
  
Vin's eyes looked past the shadow – shrouded rocks to the past; the Seven   
locked in mortal combat with Yates' gang and Eli Joe. None of them had been   
hurt, but the fight wasn't over. Coupled with the profound sense of   
brotherhood Vin shared with these men was the dire fear that one of them   
would be wounded, or die, on his account. It was one thing to fight side by   
side against bank robbers or outlaws; but when the blood shed was for his own   
behalf, the thought filled him with both awe and terror.  
  
How long can it go on? Vin wondered as he rode along, studying the dark   
moving forms of his friends against the flickering campfire's glow. Yates   
had to talk, had to help them end this. Because if he didn't, Vin would   
never be free. But even worse, to his mind, was the fact that his friends   
would be in danger because of his presence.   
  
Bounty hunters would come around, or real lawmen who were passing through   
would want to arrest him. Four Corners was growing rapidly, with the railroad   
coming in. It wouldn't be a sleepy town for much longer; soon there would be   
hordes of people coming through, and it would be impossible for him to hide.   
And the others, he knew, would not let him be taken.  
  
He recalled JD, so Goddamned brave, facing down Yates with a loaded   
shotgun, trying to stop them from taking him away. The kid was lucky Yates   
didn't shoot him. Would he be so lucky next time? Would Chris be able to   
avoid getting himself killed the next time a bounty hunter looked to catch   
himself a five – hundred – dollar prize? Vin could tell them all not to risk   
themselves that way, but such words would be useless; they would all fight   
for each other to the death, just as Vin would. But if he had to watch any   
of them fall for his sake, then the noose which awaited him would almost be   
welcome...  
  
He shook off the nightmare vision, shivering as a chill ran through him.   
He dreaded the thought of putting their lives in danger, that he might be the   
cause of their destruction. But the only way to save them would be for him   
to leave their company, a fate worse to him than the gallows. Without him,   
they would still be whole enough to continue the battle they were drawn   
together to fight. But did he have the strength to ride away from the   
brotherhood in order to save it, and face his fate alone?  
  
A shout from the campsite attracted his attention; Chris was yelling to   
him, waving him in. Dinner was ready. Vin took a deep breath and spurred   
Sire forward towards the warm light and the friends who waited within it.   
New determination welled within him; one way or another, he was going to see   
to it that this bounty on his head was lifted.   
  
There was more than one life on the line.  
  
  
Ezra sighed as he patted his bedroll down over the smoothest patch of   
ground he could find – which was still studded with small, sharp rocks and   
prickly patches of dry grass. Why did nature have to be so damned   
uncomfortable?  
  
"Make yourself at home, my dear," he said to Pony, who was standing close   
by watching him as he prepared to bed down for the night. "I do hope you   
don't mind not sleeping with your companions for one evening."  
  
He glanced up and saw her shrug, her expression indifferent in the moonlit   
darkness.  
  
"Don't bother me none," she muttered, and deftly began undoing the buttons   
on the rough man's work shirt she wore.  
  
Ezra was on his feet in an instant, one hand gently grabbing hers to stop   
her action. To her startled stare he offered a quick smile.  
  
"There's no need for disrobing, I assure you," he said in a gentle tone.  
  
She eyed him with a confused frown and pulled out of his loose grip.  
  
"Well, mister, I ain't never done it with my clothes on – that some fancy   
way you picked up in the city?"  
  
"No, no," Ezra insisted with a sigh – how could he make her understand, when  
it was obvious how she'd lived her life? "We won't be engaging in anything   
of that sort."  
  
Pony took a step back, now clearly bewildered. "Now look – I ain't in for   
no funny kinds of horseplay," she said, her voice sharp with warning.   
  
"I promise you there will be no horseplay," Ezra said, slightly impatient   
now as he slowly took her by the hands, his voice becoming softer. "I am a   
gentleman and have no intention of violating you."  
  
Pony blinked a few times,then snorted before pulling her hands from his   
loose grasp. "I met plenty of you 'gentlemen' before. You turn into common   
sewer rats right quick enough."  
  
Ezra gave her a stern look, his green eyes glittering in the moonlight.   
"Young lady, I can only give you my word that no such metamorphosis on my   
part will occur. However, if you insist on continuing with your current   
suspicions, you are free to rejoin your comrades. I – " he began to pull off   
his coat – "am going to bed."  
  
She watched him, unsure, as he carefully folded up the jacket and sat down   
to remove his boots. After a few moments, she glanced behind her at the rest   
of the group, who were also preparing for sleep among much foul language and   
coarse laughter. She turned back to Ezra.  
  
"You really mean it? You ain't gonna touch me?"  
  
"Indeed not," Ezra replied without looking at her as he knocked some sand   
out of one of his boots. "My only concern was to keep you out of the   
charming hands of our new associate."  
  
Pony studied him with confusion, then rolled out her blanket and slowly sat   
down a few feet from Ezra. "You don't got to worry yourself about me," she   
said softly, although puzzlement was still in her voice. "I can protect   
myself just fine."  
  
"I've no doubt," was Ezra's response as he slid into his bedroll and   
arranged the blanket over himself. "But it occurred to me that you might   
enjoy having one night when you didn't have to. Pleasant dreams."  
  
With that, he turned over and settled in, weary from the ride. After a few   
minutes he opened one eye carefully to see her still sitting, obviously   
trying to understand that nothing was expected of her except that she be   
safe. When next he looked several minutes later, she had apparently accepted   
the situation, for she was stretched out on her blanket, sound asleep.  
  
Ezra smiled a bit to himself as he tried to get comfortable. He really   
couldn't blame her for being suspicious; he'd trusted others, and been badly   
hurt as a result. Why was he encouraging this child to trust at the same   
time he was trying to break himself of that dangerous habit? Wouldn't she be   
better off to be hard and uncaring, her heart protected by an impenetrable   
wall as his once was?   
  
He laughed silently at himself; it was far too late, and he was far too   
weary, for such puzzles. He really didn't know why he was unable to simply   
mind his own business as he had always done before. Or, if he did know, he   
didn't want to acknowledge the reason, because he had to convince himself   
that that part of his life was over now.  
  
Ezra resolutely put the conundrum from his mind, and following Pony's   
example, soon fell sound asleep.  
  
  
  
Gray glowered over his beer as he sat alone in the corner of the saloon, watching the drunken revelers swirling around him. As usual, the late – night carnival was at its height as the Regulator clock on the wall struck eleven. But as the scrawny, slouched figure eyed the bright, noisy crowd, he felt no compulsion to join in their giddiness. One member of its throng commanded all of his bitter attention.  
  
Buck Wilmington had been in the saloon at least as long as Gray had, enjoying the evening and pestering that Mexican gal whenever he got the chance. Gray had known he wouldn't like that Buck Wilmington, simply because he was a lawman, and Gray hated the law no matter who wore the badge. If the man had simply been a sheriff, that would have been enough.  
  
But, Gray thought sourly as he kept his angry eyes on the laughing young man sitting at a nearby table full of half – drunk poker players, fate had not stopped at simply making Wilmington a lawman. He was also young and handsome, obviously a killer with the ladies – everything that Gray was once, or thought himself to be, and was no longer. The envy was consuming him alive.  
  
"You're an old man, Gray." Hanley's voice rang in his beer – sodden mind, and Gray's frown deepened as if Hanley himself were present to receive the enraged glare. Dammit, he knew that as well as anyone, but that didn't mean he couldn't shoot a gun, or cover his comrade's backs. The War had taken what was left of his youth, but there was plenty of fight in him still, if they would only let him prove it. He longed to be there at Dutchman Pass when they jumped Wilmington's friends; Hanley had told him of the planned ambush's location before he left, and Gray knew just where it was. But he didn't dare disobey Hanley and leave town, so all he could do was sit and stew in frustrated misery.  
  
He rubbed his loose, stubbled face and stared at the oblivious Wilmington, his anger mounting. He had been that young once, and that handsome too, certainly. It hardly seemed fair that his long years would be repaid like this – watching some fresh–faced youngster have all the fun while he sat, ragged and alone, all but cast out. As Gray studied his enemy, a slow–burning rage boiled through him. His opponent was more than the lawman of Four Corners; it was Age. And the young and handsome Wilmington was the embodiment of all that Gray believed he was fighting against.  
  
The sound of the saloon doors opening distracted him, and he willingly pulled his eyes from the hated form of his adversary to see who was coming in. It was a young woman, black–haired and pretty, clad in the obvious garb of a working girl. She glanced around the room once, taking it in with cool, experienced eyes, then entered the saloon with a firm stride.  
  
Gray instantly perked up, recognizing the woman he'd seen getting off the stagecoach his first day here. He hadn't had a woman for weeks; Pony had been too busy with the other men to pay him much mind. Besides, she was just a girl, and despite her experience had learned little beyond the basics. No, he thought with a smile, here was just what he needed, and thanks to a little thieving of the group's funds, he had the money to fulfill that desire.  
  
He finished off his beer and was standing up when he noticed some movement out of the corner of his eye. To his horror, he saw that Wilmington had also noticed the girl, and was standing up in preparation to approach her as well. He narrowed his eyes and adjusted his fraying gray jacket.  
  
Over my dead body, lawman, he thought, and strode forward.  
  
  
  
Buck felt his heart soar with relief as his eyes fell on the dark – haired working girl coming through the saloon doors. Finally, he thought as he hurriedly folded his hand and stood.  
  
He quickly studied her as he struggled to make his way through the crowd to where she stood at the end of the bar. She looked healthy, not like many working girls he'd known; she must be new to the business. His heart twinged with sadness, as it always did at such a thought; he had a great deal of respect and sympathy for women who lived such a life, but it was not the sort of ordeal he would ever wish on anyone. His own mother had survived the experience with her humanity intact, but Buck had known far too many women who had not been as fortunate. He couldn't relieve her situation, but perhaps he could make it a little more bearable, and let her know that she was not alone.  
  
"Hey there, darlin'," he said in a friendly tone as he sat beside her. She turned large blue eyes to him, and he saw how much weariness already burned in their sapphire depths. He pretended not to notice, and tipped his hat. "Can ol' Buck buy you a drink?"  
  
A small smile played on her painted lips. "If ol' Buck's got the cash he's welcome to do what he likes. I'll have a beer."  
  
"Comin' up," Buck announced, signaling to the barkeep. He turned back to her, a friendly smile shining beneath his mustache. "If we're gonna be toastin' your loveliness, I'm afraid I'll have t'ask your name."  
  
"It's Molly," she replied with a sideways glance. "Molly Havers. An' I guess you're ol' Buck."  
  
"Buck Wilmington, ma'am," he said.  
  
She took a drink from the frothy mug set before her and gave him a knowing grin. "Oh, YOU'RE Buck Wilmington, huh?"  
  
His smile drooped a bit, but he remained optimistic. "Yes, ma'am. Sounds like a few tongues been waggin' with my name on 'em."  
  
She laughed; it was a deep, throaty sound. "Yeah, some of the gals, they been tellin' me about you."  
  
Buck shifted a bit and chuckled. "It's all damn lies, Miss Molly. 'Cept the good stuff, of course."  
  
Molly still smiled, but the smile turned somewhat sad as she studied him seriously. "Actually, it was all good. Too good t'be true, I thought."  
  
He knew that look, too well – a tentative glimmer of hope hidden by thick walls of pain and hardship. Many of the other working girls he'd visited had the same jaded, unbelieving expression – a dull disbelief that there could still be men who would not beat them, or abuse them, or treat them like dirt. She had that look already, and she couldn't be more than eighteen.  
  
Buck straightened, his face softening, his voice becoming gentle. "Molly, darlin', I know you prob'ly been through a lot, but you can believe – "  
  
"Hey, mister, you gonna talk this gal to death?"  
  
Buck started, surprised to see that old guy from the boarding house, what was his name, Adams, standing behind Molly. She turned and gave him a glance before going back to her beer.  
  
"Just a little conversation, friend," Buck replied with as much civility as he could muster. "You go on 'bout your business."  
  
"Be glad to," the other man smirked. "What you chargin', Missy?"  
  
Buck stood, his blue eyes snapping. "Now hold on there – "  
  
To his astonishment, Molly placed a gently restraining hand on Buck's chest.   
  
"Buck, wait."  
  
He gazed into her eyes, his own wide. "Molly, you don't got to crawl to every dog that barks for you."  
  
"I resent that, mister," the other man said with a glare.  
  
Buck ignored him, turning his eyes to Molly as she began to speak, her voice low.  
  
"Buck, I – really, I have t'work, I ain't got no money. It's all right, it's what I'm used to."  
  
"That's what I'm countin' on, gal," Adams said with a chuckle. "C'mon."  
  
Molly gave him a resigned smile, small and sad. "Sorry, Buck. Listen, I'll see y'around, okay? Y'can buy me another beer."  
  
"Wait!" Buck said as they began to walk away. He wasn't going to let her go that easily. He plunged one hand into his pocket, pulling out a small wad of bills.   
  
Molly sighed. "Now Buck, you know you I'd never charge you nothin'."  
  
"I know, darlin', but this here's a special case," Buck said with determination as he began thumbing through the bills.  
  
Adams let out a hearty, contemptuous laugh. "Look, sonny, unless you c'n beat twenty bucks, you're wastin' your time." He pulled a couple of ten – dollar notes from his pocket and held them up triumphantly, a wide grin on his face.  
  
Buck stopped counting and looked up, a sinking feeling gripping his heart; He knew he had no more than seven or eight dollars.  
  
"Look, darlin'," he said finally, "you know you don't got to go with him. You got a choice."  
  
She sighed as she gathered her worn shawl around her shoulders. "I know that, Buck, but – well, us gals, we have t'take the best offer." She leaned close and whispered with a melancholy smile, "I'll see you later, all right, Buck? An' – I'm sorry."  
  
She walked away. Adams allowed himself a victorious chuckle at Buck's expense as he turned to lead Molly out of the saloon.  
  
Buck watched her go, bewildered and disappointed. For a brief moment he considered calling Adams out, but quickly pushed that thought aside; such an action would accomplish nothing, and only cause more grief for Molly. Then his eyes narrowed as he pondered the situation; where could someone so obviously down on his luck get twenty dollars, anyhow? The man hadn't bought new clothes in ages, it looked like, yet was waving around ten – spot notes like they were flags. And Adams lived at the same boarding house he did, just across the hall...  
  
Buck quickly finished his beer, paid his tab, and squared his hat on his head.   
  
"Hey, Buck," one of his poker buddies called, "you comin' back?"  
  
The gunslinger shot a quick look back at the poker table, then returned his gaze to the path Molly and Adams had taken. "Naw, Charlie, go on without me. I suddenly feel like turnin' in."  
  
  
  
Ezra was deep in the arms of a dreamless sleep when his repose was rudely interrupted by an uncomfortable nudging in his ribs. Consciousness, though unwelcome, quickly returned, and within a few seconds he was fully alert. With practiced skill he quickly grabbed his Remington, sat up straight and had the weapon pointed at the intruder of his repose.  
  
"Jesus, Ezra, put that damn thing down! It's just me!"  
  
He blinked and recognized Pony's slender form standing over him, barely discernible in the gray–pink gloom of very early dawn. As he pulled back his weapon and disarmed it, he looked around; although the sun was just starting to come up, everyone in Hanley's camp were already up and moving.  
  
"My apologies, my dear," he said smoothly as he reholstered the weapon. "Is something amiss?"  
  
Pony shook her head. "Naw, we're just gettin' ready t'head out."  
  
Inside, Ezra groaned; and he thought his working hours under Larabee were bad. "At this ungodly time of day?"  
  
"Earlier we get started, the earlier this is all over with," was the terse reply as Pony shook out her bedroll.  
  
"The sooner what is over with?" Ezra inquired as he pulled on his boots.  
  
He saw her gaze steadily at him as she tied up her bedding. "You'll find out."  
  
The morning had barely progressed much farther by the time Ezra availed himself of the coffee pot boiling over the campfire. As he hastily sipped at the bitter black liquid and wished he'd thought to bring some molasses to sweeten it with, Ezra caught glimpses of his fellow travelers. Most of them, including Pony, were in deep discussion with Hanley.  
  
What could this be about, he wondered as he gnawed one of the day–old biscuits that had been provided as breakfast. His mind began to work; there had to be some way he could extricate himself from these people without getting shot at.  
  
"Better enjoy them biscuits, that's all I got time for today."  
  
Ezra swallowed and looked over to where Pony was stoking the campfire.  
  
"Quite adequate, I assure you," he said, taking another drink of the coffee. "Is your morning téte–a–téte over so soon?"  
  
Pony shot him a look of amused bewilderment. "That sure is some tongue you got in that head of yours. Don't it speak English?"  
  
He chuckled as he seated himself on a large rock. "My apologies. I was simply wondering what our dear Mr. Hanley had to say to you this fine morning."  
  
"Oh, he'll let y'know soon enough," Pony assured him as she rose and slapped her palms together to beat the dirt off of them. Then she turned to face him, her expression serious.  
  
"Hey, Ezra, you really weren't kiddin' last night, were you?"  
  
Ezra looked at her in confusion and tossed the rest of the coffee away into the dry grass. "Last night?"  
  
"Yeah. I mean, you didn't try nothin'."  
  
The meaning dawned on him. "Ah. No, young lady, I did not."  
  
Pony shifted awkwardly. "Well – guess I oughta 'pologize t'you, then. I thought for sure you was bullshittin' me about all that 'gentleman' crap."  
  
Ezra stood, his face smooth and gentle with sincerity. "My dear child, I promise you, that is one subject I do not take lightly. I would never take advantage of your helplessness and add to the heavy burden you are already carrying."  
  
She gave him an uncertain look and stepped back a bit. "I ain't helpless. If I wanted to, I could drill every damn one of them guys dead an' take off whenever I wanted."  
  
Ezra studied her. "Your skill with a firearm must be prodigious," he observed.  
  
She nodded. "Damn right it is. I ain't killed nobody yet, but that don't mean I can't. I ain't one of them silly–ass city gals. I can do whatever the hell I want."  
  
With a quick movement she crouched before the fire and poked at it, sending bright sparks drifting into the cool morning air. She was clearly agitated, and didn't look at Ezra as he knelt beside her, his green eyes dancing in the fire's glow.  
  
"Then why not free yourself of this life?" he asked quietly. "This is no place for someone of your tender years."  
  
She turned bitter eyes to him, the sharp shadows of the fire carving deep lines in her hard expression. "You got a better place for me to go? I seen what's out there, Ezra, an' it ain't no different than what I got here. Least here I can count on some fun an' maybe a little money."  
  
"Yes, you must be simply delirious with all the 'fun' you're having," was Ezra's barbed reply.  
  
She laughed and looked away, still prodding the fire. "Beats starvin' in the streets. I grew up thinkin' there was good folks in the world. Had a real nice Ma and' Pa, an' a baby brother who I thought was just like a little angel. Then when I was seven my ma an' brother died from the typhoid an' my pa became a drunk an' hung hisself in our barn when I was ten."  
  
Ezra shuddered. "My sympathies."  
  
"Save 'em," she spat, giving the fire a hard jab. "I weren't sorry he died, he'd got mean and was always beatin' me. But when I saw him hangin' there, I just left 'im in the barn an' walked out. Been walkin' ever since, an' finally I realized that I was lookin' for somethin' I wasn't never gonna find. An' givin' up on that made my life a whole lot simpler."  
  
The gambler eyed her sadly, thinking how much older she looked now, with the anger in her eyes. "And what were you looking for?"  
  
She glanced at him quickly, then stood and tossed the stick away. "Hell, I dunno. Maybe just proof that there was still decent folks somewhere, like Ma. But if there was, I sure didn't find 'em. It's like – nobody cares no more, or fight for what's right. That's just the way it is."  
  
A sad memory flickered across Ezra's eyes as he rose as well. "I had some comrades who may have given you cause to doubt that statement, my dear."  
  
She looked at him curiously. "What happened to 'em?"  
  
He winced; it was still too painful to talk about. "Let's just say we had a parting of the ways."  
  
"Y'see?" she griped, pushing a finger at him. "That's folks for ya. Ain't got no more regard for your feelin's than they have for a dead rattler."  
  
She walked away, leaving Ezra to contemplate her biting words. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, tell her that he had seen Larabee and Tanner and the others prove time and again that there were still a few men willing to risk all for the benefit of others. She needed to know that.  
  
But warring with his desire to give her that assurance was the still – fresh pain of Ezra's wounded pride. Could he sing the praises of men who had so blithely turned their backs on him? It seemed an absurd thought. How could he honestly tell her that such decent men did exist, when he had been a victim of their thoughtless cruelty? It was a puzzling situation.  
  
"Standish! Get over here!"  
  
Ezra looked up; Hanley was waving at him impatiently. Sorting this conundrum out would have to wait, it appeared, and with relief Ezra put aside his musings and joined the others gathered around their burly leader. There would be plenty of time for such thoughts later.  
  
"All right," Hanley said, as Ezra sat down at the edge of the group," Now, we're in luck. Dark Sun says our boys have been sighted at a camp not too far from here."  
  
"Finally, a little fun," Trent, the dandy, said with a smile.  
  
"Hold your damn horses, fancy boy," Hanley said with contempt, glaring at Trent. "No gunplay until I say so. We still don't know how many weapons they got, or if they hired any extra men themselves. That's the information I need this morning. So, Trent, Pony, an' Standish, you're going to go take a look at their camp."  
  
"Whatever you say," Pony said casually as she leaned against a rock, arms folded.  
  
"Aw hell, Hanley," Trent griped, "why not just attack 'em now? They won't know what hit 'em."  
  
"Because, Trent, you idiot," Hanley said in a cold tone as he crossed over to where Trent was lounging on the ground, "we don't know what we're up against yet. You'll get your fight, don't worry. Dark Sun'll show you where to go. Just get a close look and come back. And no horsing around. Got it?"  
  
Trent stood with a bored sigh. "Yeah, yeah. Sheesh."  
  
The group broke up. Ezra's mind was back to thinking of how he could get himself out of this mess, and he barely noticed when Dark Sun rode up on his black horse and reined in close to where Trent, Pony and Ezra were standing together.  
  
"Follow me," was all the long–haired youth said, in a quiet voice which offered no emotion. Then he was off, and Trent and Pony immediately began walking in his wake. Ezra followed them wordlessly, still mulling over his problem and hoping that the forthcoming assignment might offer some solution.  
  
  
  
Chris rubbed his face as he tried to get the morning campfire going. It was barely past dawn, but they were still a long way from Tascosa, and it would be a hard ride now that they were in the wilderness with nothing around them but miles of emptiness. Best to get started as soon as possible.  
  
The dry timber crackled hopefully to life, and Chris stirred it slowly, encouraging the struggling flames. A headache threatened him behind his eyes; he'd slept badly, haunted by the nightmare vision of Vin dangling at the end of a rope, his lifeless eyes accusing Chris of destroying his only chance at escaping this fate. Chris shuddered and gave the fire a furious poke, as if such an action would sear away the painful vision.  
  
In the desert stillness he could hear Yates still snoring. Damn bastard, he thought sourly; that figures, that he can sleep. Worst that can happen to him is prison, and he'll go there gladly if he can see Vin hang first. You won't be resting easy for long, Chris resolved, and tossed the stick into the now – healthy fire, watching it blaze with satisfaction and thinking of Eli Joe, hopefully roasting somewhere in a similar condition.  
  
"Coffee ready?"  
  
Chris looked up. Vin was walking towards him, running one hand through his long curls and scratching the night dryness out of his scalp. His worn leather jacket and hat were grasped in one hand, and he plopped them lightly on the ground as he sat down next to Chris.  
  
"Just started the fire," Chris replied. "Josiah'll be up soon, we'll let him do the coffee."  
  
Vin coughed. "Bit early for Josiah's coffee, ain't it?" he said with a smile as he put on his hat.  
  
The other man shrugged as he leaned forward, keeping his eyes on the fire. Vin sighed and positioned himself in a similar manner, his lithe hands folded loosely together.  
  
Silence fell between them for a long period as each man watched the dancing flames, consumed by their own thoughts.  
  
"Chris?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
Vin gently cleared his throat. "I been, uh, thinkin' on what might happen. With Yates."  
  
A somewhat sadistic smile twitched Chris's lips. "I been ponderin' that myself."  
  
The younger man pulled some dead grass from the dry ground and began picking absently at it as he talked, keeping his eyes glued to the brown blades. "I was thinkin' on what might happen if he don't talk."  
  
"He'll talk," Chris declared in a deadly serious tone, not moving.  
  
Vin gave a short sigh full of concern. "Lord knows we'll do our best on 'im, Chris, but that man's stubborn as a Texas mule. An' you oughta know what I aim t'do if he stays that way."  
  
Chris sat up and frowned, studying his friend closely. "You givin' up?"  
  
"Hell, no!" Vin exclaimed, his whole body snapping with tension as he straightened. "I aim t'fight for my life to the end, you know that."  
  
"Then what's this bull I'm hearin'?" Chris demanded in a quiet but anxious tone. "You ain't never talked like this before."  
  
The tracker sighed, frustrated. "I ain't never been in a spot like this before. If Yates don't clear my name, sooner or later someone's gonna come gunnin' for that bounty. An'...I ain't aimin' t'have nobody get hurt because of it."  
  
A sick feeling twisted Chris's gut as he unwillingly guessed what Vin was saying. He shook his head.  
  
"You know damn well we ain't gonna let you just disappear, Vin."  
  
Vin eyed him for a moment, then slowly smiled, his blue eyes sparkling in the orange firelight.  
  
"I know, an' don't think I ain't grateful for that. You an' the others, you done risked your lives for me, an' I'll never forget it. But I can't let you an' the folks back in town keep doin' it. It ain't right, an' it's eatin' at me somethin' awful."  
  
Chris glanced at him, his eyes huge and somber. Then he looked away, back at the fire, which was growing more dim in the light of the rising sun.   
  
Vin was right, dammit, Chris thought as he watched the morning light spread over the waking desert. If his name wasn't cleared now, the chances would only get better that sooner or later, someone would come gunning for him. And if someone innocent got hurt, the tracker would never forgive himself. Chris had no right to ask his friend to stay and risk having to carry such an unbearable burden. And as the town's peacekeepers, they could not put the town in such danger.  
  
There had to be peace – but the price seemed too steep. Chris didn't like the thought of walking into a gunfight without Vin's cool – headed skills at his side. The tracker's silent companionship had steadied Chris through many difficult times; he seemed to understand the deep pain which still flared occasionally in Chris's soul, probably because it also lurked in his own.  
  
So, he could talk Vin into staying, and risk the unthinkable, or allow him to go, and lose the closest thing to a brother he'd ever had.  
  
He grunted and said aloud, "Hell of a choice, Vin."  
  
Vin gave a short, humorless laugh and shook his head as he tossed the few remaining blades of grass into the fire. "Ain't it?"  
  
Chris glanced over to where Yates was still snoring loudly.  
  
"We just got t'see that you don't ever have t'make it."  



	3. Default Chapter Title

"Can you see 'em?"  
  
Trent hissed the question across the tall, dry grass as he, Ezra and Pony slowly crept towards the smoke of a distant campfire. Behind them, Dark Sun sat on his horse watching them, rifle at the ready in case of trouble.  
  
"Not as yet," Ezra whispered back as he tried to stay low to the ground, palming his Remington nervously. What an idiot he'd been for agreeing to do this – he was feeling more anxious by the minute. Here he was, skulking like a common cutthroat through the desert grass, preparing to spy on an unsuspecting group of – whatever they were, just so Hanley could plot their demise. It was not only illegal, it was uncivilized.  
  
"Let's split up," Pony suggested. "Meet back here after a while. An' you mind Hanley, Trent – no messin' around!"  
  
The only reply Trent made was a mischievous grin which promised nothing and worried Ezra. Then they parted, Trent and Pony advancing to opposite ends of the area, leaving Ezra to move on ahead alone.  
  
Ezra tried not to disturb the rustling grass too much as he inched along, his green eyes darting furiously as he hunted for an avenue of escape. Perhaps he could pretend to be captured by these men...only if that happened Hanley would probably simply make sure he died along with the rest of them. They were far from help, in the middle of nowhere. Even if Ezra managed to slip away there were few places for him to go. He could warn these men, give them a fighting chance, but Hanley would probably attack anyway. And he would have difficulty making sure the child Pony wasn't hurt or killed in the melee which would surely result. Damn...  
  
The nickering of horses reached his ears, and Ezra bent lower to the ground; judging from the sound – and the smell – he was near the area where the horses were tethered. He could hear the metallic clatter of tools – someone was working with them. He clutched his gun a little more carefully and moved closer, determined to make a single quick observation and then go back.  
  
In a few moments he was close enough to make out forms through the tall grass. He squinted; several horses, a figure moving among them, a wagon of some sort sitting nearby. Another few feet and he'd be close enough to see if anyone else was there...  
  
"Hold still, fella, I'm just gonna check your shoe."  
  
Ezra froze.  
  
It can't be, he told himself when the power of coherent thought returned to him. He began to shake with surprise, his heart now hammering in his ears while ice – cold blood pounded through his body. It can't be, but –   
  
– that sounded just like JD.  
  
No, Ezra insisted silently, that can't be, they were on their way to Tascosa, and why would Hanley want to ambush them anyway? It's a mistake, I simply heard wrong. It can't be Chris and the others that we're preparing to slaughter.  
  
"Dang it all, Hero, hold still. You're jumpy as a horn toad."  
  
Ezra's heart sank in his chest as his mouth went painfully dry. Oh Lord, he thought. Oh Lord.   
  
He inched forward on trembling legs now, a cold sweat on his brow. Through the thin tall blades of grass he could make out a slender form in shirtsleeves, bent over his work as he closely examined one of the horse's hooves. It was JD, there was no doubt; he recognized the young man, all the horses, even though they were almost thirty feet away. A roaring wave of confusion washed over him; what should he do now?  
  
His first thought was to go to JD, warn him of what was happening. For a moment all thoughts of betrayal and anger were forgotten; an instinct born of six months of comradeship was telling him that JD and the others had to be protected.  
  
But how would he explain his presence here, when he was supposed to be in St. Louis? This thought gave him pause, and his mind swirled in bewilderment. He had to do something. The question was, what?  
  
"Brought y'some coffee, John Dunne."  
  
Josiah. Ezra ducked down, unaccountably frightened by the preacher's arrival. Why was he afraid of them now? he wondered, dazed.  
  
Because two minutes ago you were helping someone else plan their murders, was the accusing reply. They likely would not approve of that.  
  
"Thanks, Josiah," he heard JD say in something of a mumble. He inched ahead a little, trying not to make any noise, desperate to see them.   
  
JD was sitting on a rock, half–heartedly sipping at a steaming tin cup of coffee. Josiah stood next to him, coatless as well and without his hat, a similar cup in his own hand. To Ezra's frustration, he could only make out parts of their conversation. Josiah was saying something in a concerned tone to JD, who replied with a shrug.  
  
"I guess I'm just black an' blue from kickin' myself," he heard JD say.  
  
Josiah nodded. "That can be a wearin' exercise on a man. Anythin' I can help with?"  
  
JD shrugged, still staring at his barely – touched coffee. "Don't think so, preacher. I just been feelin' bad about what happened with Ezra."  
  
Ezra almost fell over with surprise.  
  
Josiah nodded and said something in a regretful tone as he gazed over the prairie; most of the statement was muffled by the coffee cup he had brought up to his mouth.  
  
"It's been eatin' at my gut since we left town," JD confessed, and Ezra saw him look up at Josiah as if he were seeking guidance. "I think – he's really mad at me. An' I ain't never had a friend mad at me before, Josiah. Not like this. What should I do?"  
  
Josiah leaned against the rock next to him, folding one arm over and holding up his cup with the other. "What do y'want to do?"  
  
Ezra heard JD heave a sigh. "Hell, I dunno. Just go an' ask him if he's mad at me, I guess. But every time I think of doin' that, I get all nervous."  
  
"That's a normal thing, son," Josiah assured him. "Nobody likes to face the devils that lurk in us all, an' the hurt they can sometimes cause. If it helps. I been thinkin' on Brother Ezra myself."  
  
JD looked up. "Really? Well, uh, what'd you come up with?"  
  
Ezra strained to hear.  
  
"Oh, just that he's probably been feelin' poorly," Josiah said thoughtfully. "Hurts a man's pride t'be beat out like that. Wouldn't surprise me if that trip to St. Louis was just his idea of gettin' out of our way for a while."  
  
"Hm," JD muttered. "Well – but, he's comin' back, right? Ezra wouldn't just leave."  
  
A hot stab of shame burned Ezra's heart; he tried to ignore it and listened.  
  
"Sure hope so, son," Josiah said, after another drink of coffee. "Got a few things I want t'say to 'im myself."  
  
JD looked at him, then back down at his hands. "I asked Nathan about it, but he didn't seem all that worried. He said Ezra was just bein' stubborn."  
  
Ezra felt the familiar anger rekindle itself. Nathan's opinion of him, apparently, hadn't changed.  
  
"Is that right?" Josiah replied, before drinking the last of his coffee.   
  
"Yep," JD asserted. "But – he sure wasn't too keen t'talk about it."  
  
They were silent for a few minutes.  
  
"But," JD said suddenly, "if Ezra was feelin' that bad, he'd tell us, wouldn't he?"  
  
Josiah stood. "Wouldn't bet on that, JD. Some pain's just too deep for words."  
  
JD straightened as well, glancing ruefully at his still–full cup. "He should've let us know what was goin' on, Josiah. It almost feels – like he didn't trust us enough t'tell us."  
  
Josiah's hand patted JD heavily on the shoulder, his words soft and reassuring as well as unintelligible. Then Ezra heard him say, "Now we better get movin', or Ezra's gonna beat us back t'town."  
  
JD nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly, and Josiah gave him another reassuring pat before heading back towards the campfire. JD resumed his work with the horses, a thoughtful expression still on his face.  
  
Ezra sat still for a moment, too stunned to move. A tumult of emotions churned through his mind, far too confusing to sort out. Should he let JD know he was there? An explanation would be extremely difficult, especially now. But they had to be warned –   
  
"Hey!"  
  
It was a sharp whisper, and Ezra felt someone jab him in the leg. Turning, he saw Pony crouched low behind him, waving her hand at him to follow her. Trying to hide his bewildered state, Ezra silently obeyed.  
  
They moved back about twenty feet and crouched together in the grass, their heads close together.   
  
"Looks like there's still just the five of 'em an' Yates," Pony hissed.  
  
Trent nodded, wiping at his lip. "Didn't see any new guns. Guess they figured they're safe enough."  
  
Ezra figured he should say something. "I was only able to eavesdrop on that young man back there and the older gentleman."  
  
"Yeah?" Pony eyed him. "Hear anythin' interestin'?"  
  
The gambler glanced at her sharply, then shook his head. "Rather boring, I'm afraid."  
  
Pony grunted. "C'mon – we'd best get back to the horses an' tell Hanley what we found before they spot us."  
  
They began to crawl off.  
  
"Wait," said Trent.  
  
Pony and Ezra glanced back to see Trent gazing at the lone figure of JD tending to the horses. After a moment's thought he reached into his boot and withdrew a long, sharp–looking knife.  
  
Ezra's heart leapt into his throat.  
  
"What you thinkin' on, Trent?" Pony whispered angrily.  
  
"Just gonna even the odds up a bit, darlin'," Trent smiled, still staring at JD.   
  
Blood thudded in Ezra's ears; he swallowed and whispered as casually as he could, "I believe our esteemed leader forbade any gunplay."  
  
Trent threw him an annoyed look and held the knife up for his inspection. "Does this look like a gun to you?"  
  
"Don't be an idiot, Trent, they're gonna find us!" Pony breathed angrily, clearly losing patience with her comrade's actions.  
  
"No, they won't," was the contemptuous reply. "He won't know what hit 'im, an' then we'll only have four guns to worry about. Go ahead, I'll catch up."  
  
Pony eyed him and sighed. "If you get in trouble we won't back you up."  
  
"Not a worry," Trent assured her, and clamped the knife in his teeth before crawling off in the grass towards JD.  
  
Pony began moving off towards the horses. Ezra hesitated, uncertain.  
  
"Are we going to let him murder that young man?" he whispered to Pony as they shuffled quickly towards where their horses were hidden.  
  
"Ain't our business if he wants t'get shot," Pony hissed back. "An' that guy's one of the men we're after, so who cares if he dies."  
  
A cold feeling overtook Ezra, and he glanced back. Trent was about twenty feet from JD now, and the young man had no idea of what was happening.  
  
His hand struck something sharp, and he bit back a cry. Looking down, he could see that the ground was strewn with small, jagged protruding rocks. Pony was carefully picking her way through them, gun still in hand.  
  
An idea quickly formed in his mind.  
  
He rose into a half–crouch, silently cocking his gun, then looked for a likely group of particularly rough–looking boulders. A set soon appeared in his path and he took the chance to trip over it, quickly losing his balance and falling heavily to the ground, squeezing the trigger of his gun as he fell. His gun discharged into the air with a loud BANG! as he hit the ground.  
  
Pony whirled, her brown eyes wide, her gun held tight in one hand.  
  
"Deucedly clumsy of me," Ezra said as he picked himself up.  
  
Pony was staring past him to where Trent had been stalking JD.   
  
"Shit," was all she muttered before running off towards her horse. Ezra glanced back as well, but they were too far away to see what was going on through the tall grass.   
  
Ezra could only hope that JD heard his warning shot, and ran after Pony to the horses.  
  
  
  
JD knew he was supposed to be checking the horses' shoes for the trip, but his mind insisted on straying elsewhere. If only he could've talked to Ezra before he left –   
  
BANG!  
  
The young man's head shot up, his eyes wide. That had been a gunshot, close too, and Vin was patrolling on the other side of camp. He swiftly drew his Colt, peering through the tall grass.  
  
"Hey!" he yelled, running forward. "Who's out there? Hey!"  
  
There was a movement in the weeds, and JD could make out a dark form.  
  
"Come out of there!" JD cried, both Colts out now, his equine chores forgotten. The figure hesitated, then stood and opened fire.  
  
JD ducked the bullet and fired back, ignoring the horses as they reared and whinnied in agitation. Footsteps approached behind JD; he half–turned to see Chris and Nathan running up, firing as well at the intruder.  
  
"What is it?" Nathan yelled, as a bullet whizzed close to his ear. There was a dry rustling sound, and the figure could be seen running away through the grass. In the distance, two more shapes were waiting, mere specks against the vast desert landscape.  
  
"I swear he came outta nowhere," JD yelled. "An' there's two more of em back in the hills! Looks like they're runnin' off. "  
  
"They must be after Yates," Chris said in a grim tone. "Mount up an' let's flush this guy out."  
  
  
Trent was barely able to breathe by the time he got to the horses. Pony and Ezra were waiting.  
  
"What the hell happened?" he wheezed as he jumped on his mount. "Oh, never mind – let's get out of here!"  
  
They spurred their mounts on, tearing out of the rocky outcropping which hid them from the view of their pursuers. All three of them looked back as they dashed to where Dark Sun was waiting for them; Ezra saw a few dark shapes on horseback in the distance riding out of the camp, one of them moving towards them. They were coming, and he had a wild, unwelcome vision of being shot by one of his oblivious former associates. But at least JD had heard his warning...  
  
"Ride on," was the golden–haired young man's quiet command. "I'll stop them."  
  
"No need t'say it twice," Trent said, and was gone in a puff of dust. Pony glanced back at their pursuer, then rode after her errant lover. Ezra paused for a moment, glanced at the rider – he couldn't see who it was – then cast a worried look at Dark Sun, who was regarding the approaching rider with perfect calm. The madness in the young man's eyes, however, bode ill for whoever it was riding towards them.  
  
"Don't worry," he assured Ezra in even tones, "they won't be troubling us after this. Go."  
  
Ezra's green eyes widened at this statement, and he could only stare at the blonde warrior with dread at the thought of what he might be planning.  
  
Dark Sun glared at him and jammed his gun in his direction. "GO!"  
  
Come on! he heard Pony cry; they were all watching him, and would doubtless gun him down if he made any move to help his former comrades. He looked back quickly at Dark Sun, and the expression on his scarred face told Ezra that he was an instant away from being shot to death.  
  
Ezra blinked and spurred his mount forward, unwilling to die just yet but deeply regretting that he could do nothing to stop what was about to happen. His heart sat heavy in his chest as he rode back to where Hanley was waiting; far from being solved, his situation – and those of his former associates – had just become far more complicated.  
  
  
  
Vin pounded his horse over the plain as his comrades scattered in other directions, looking to see who might be waiting to attack their small party. The shots had come from this direction, and Vin felt confident he could track whoever was out there. He was not about to let any of his friends – his brothers – suffer on his account.   
  
Horse and rider soared over the rock–strewn desert ground. Vin's blue eyes were scanning the treacherous area, looking for any signs of the intruders. High rocky mesas towered around him, flanked by rough fields of tall grass; too many places to hide. But Vin felt ready to search them all.  
  
Quickly he made out small forms moving against the distant rocks; four shapes in tight formation. Then three of them rode away, leaving only one which also disappeared. Vin hunched over Sire's flowing mane, his lips pursed tightly as the drive of the hunt consumed him. It was an old and well-accustomed sensation, the deadly thrill of the prey's pursuit, and Vin was overcome with the determination that this quarry not escape his grasp.  
  
He had almost reached the top of a small rise when the thunder of a gunshot rent the hot morning air. The bullet clipped his side, drawing blood; Vin instantly reined in and dismounted, his Winchester in his hand as he sought his assailant. Another shot tore the air; Vin threw himself to the ground and returned fire, ignoring the new wound where the latest missile had deeply grazed his shoulder.  
  
Silence fell; Vin lay still, trying to ease his breathing as he looked around. There was no sound or movement, not even to indicate that the attacker was in retreat. One minute passed...then two...slowly Vin gripped his rifle and began to stand, every hunter's instinct in his body ablaze. The air was alive with tension; his prey was near.  
  
Instinct shouted to him, and he whirled. Ten feet away, coiled to strike, was a young man with long blonde hair and a scarred face, clad in buckskins similar to his own. In one hand flashed a long knife. Vin raised his rifle, and in the same instant the young man sprang with a cry which chilled Vin's blood in his veins.  
  
Searing pain shrilled through Vin's body as the knife was buried in his arm. With his other hand the young man pushed the rifle away just as Vin pulled the trigger, the bullet barely missing the attacker's side. Both men fell to the ground in a death grip, Vin's hold on the rifle becoming difficult as blood poured from his wound. They wrestled, the young man slashing with the knife as Vin struggled to hold him off and retain his grasp of his weapon. He threw his assailant off with a mighty push; the blood–soaked Winchester slid from his grip as well, and the young man quickly kicked it away as he stumbled to his feet.  
  
Panting, Vin leapt up as well. "If that's the way y'want it," he said with a small smile, and withdrew a large knife from his belt, a weapon similar in size and deadliness to the one the blonde man was wielding. He crouched down, ignoring the blood, the pain, everything but his opponent. The other man looked at the knife, then at Vin, and there was an eerie calmness in his blue eyes. A smile twitched his lips; then he struck.  
  
As his adversary lunged forward, Vin jumped back and slashed at him, ripping open a surface wound across his arm. Vin grabbed the wounded arm and threw the man to the ground. The blonde man landed with a heavy thud, but managed to kick up one leg, catching Vin in the small of his back. As Vin fell to one knee, dazed by the pain, his enemy lunged for him; Vin grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, driving his knife into the blonde man's leg.  
  
With a cry of enraged pain the other man fell on Vin, his weight carrying both combatants to the rocky desert floor. They grappled furiously, and Vin noticed that the calm demeanor of his opponent had been replaced by a savage animal fury. The blonde man was growling and slashing madly, practically foaming at the mouth in his beast–like rage. The stranger's eyes were wide and blinded with wrath, and in his struggling Vin had the sense that the young man was not seeing him at all, but another, even more hated enemy.  
  
The knife was sharp, its blade ice-cold as Vin felt it slice repeatedly and deeply into his chest and arms. Each new wound brought burning pain; the tracker ignored it, ignored everything but the defense of himself and his friends. Vin deflected as many of his assailant's blows as he could, and managed to inflict many of his own before the man pulled loose and drove his elbow into Vin's chest. Vin gasped and released his hold, but recovered quickly, and as his opponent came on again curled his fingers around the hilt of his knife and struck him firmly across the jaw.   
  
The young man grunted and took a step back; Vin palmed his knife and moved in, but was swiftly stopped by a replying blow to his temple. The world spun for a moment; as Vin's balance returned he saw the other man was down on one knee, covered with dust and blood, eying him in a purely feral manner as he panted for breath. He pushed back the pain and prepared to return to the fight.  
  
The report of a gunshot echoed across the rocks; both men looked up to see a figure on horseback riding towards them. Nathan, Vin realized; then he turned back to his opponent.  
  
The blonde young man was gone.  
  
Stunned, Vin climbed to his feet as quickly as he could. Sharp pain and weakness from the blood loss crashed over him, almost sending him to his knees again, but he fought it and took a few steps forward. He must have run over the hill, was probably riding away – Vin was sure he could catch him –   
  
Suddenly the ground rushed up to him, and Vin had just enough time to curse his rotten luck before falling into the dark, gaping hole of oblivion.  
  
  
  
Buck yawned as he sat on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, a still, exhausted figure surrounded by the bustle of early morning. He composed himself and scowled as he lifted his black cup of coffee to his lips and thought, What a lousy day.  
  
He couldn't remember ever having such a restless night. He couldn't sleep a wink knowing that Molly was across the hall with that Adams fellow, and he just knew that guy was bad news. He'd seen what sort of depraved things men did to working girls, and his heart ached with concern for the young woman.   
  
He knew she hadn't left last night, so he was here watching the boarding house, waiting for her to appear. Adams had already gotten up; he'd even flashed Buck a very annoying grin as he went to the hotel for breakfast. Buck had replied with his nastiest scowl, and a sincere wish that he could indulge in some choice, shouted obscenities at Adams' expense. But there were ladies present.  
  
Finally the slender, dark–haired figure of Molly came through the boarding–house doors, wrapping her thin shawl around her shoulders as she prepared to cross the street. Buck felt his heart lift with relief; she looked all right. He waved to her; she saw him, broke into a smile, and soon joined him on the porch.  
  
"Mornin', Miss Molly," Buck said brightly, standing and taking off his hat.  
  
Molly laughed. "Hell, Buck, don't go all fancy on me. I won't know you."  
  
"You deserve it, darlin'," Buck replied. "You all right?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," she sighed, seating herself next to Buck with an air of weariness. "That ol' man didn't have more'n half an' hour in 'im. Spent most of the night listenin' to 'im mumble in my ear."  
  
Buck frowned. "Sorry t'hear that, Molly. You must be plumb exhausted."  
  
"Sure am," she sighed. Then a small smile lit up her face. "But he did give me that twenty dollars. Maybe this place'll be just as good as Wickestown after all."  
  
Buck started at the mention of that place, a brothel–town which he and the other men had helped close down some time before. "Wickestown?"  
  
She peered at him. "Yeah – you heard of it?"  
  
He cleared his throat. "Y'might say that."  
  
She pulled her shawl closer and gazed up the street. "Guess it was kinda talked about. I came out here from Kansas City t'join up with that place, had a right good offer too, an' when I got here found out it was gone." She laughed. "Guess that's just my luck."  
  
"Now you listen to ol' Buck, darlin'," Buck said seriously, sitting up and looking straight into her dark blue eyes, "you ought t'be right glad you didn't wind up there. That man Wickes was a varmint too low for even the snakes t'crawl over."  
  
She eyed him curiously, idly fingering the tattered fringes of her shawl. "Oh, I heard that, Buck. But hell, I didn't get to doin' this so's I'd be treated like a queen. It ain't the easiest life. But then," she gazed at him, knowledge shining in her eyes, "I heard you know all about that."  
  
He nodded slowly. "Yes, ma'am, I do. But you ought t'know that just cause you're a workin gal, that don't mean you got t'expect bein' treated that way."  
  
She smiled with genuine gratitude. "That's so sweet of ya, Buck," she said, reaching up to gently touch his face. "I'll sure keep that in mind."  
  
"You do that," he said with a nod. "An' if that Adams feller starts hasslin' you, just let me know an' I'll have him hog–tied in no time."  
  
She chuckled and shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench. "I can handle 'im. Tell y'what, though, I think there is someone he's gunnin' for – some guy named Larabee."  
  
Buck's eyes snapped wide open for a second. "Larabee? Chris Larabee?"  
  
She looked at him, surprised, and shrugged. "I dunno – I guess so. He spent half the night mumblin' somethin' about how he was gonna – what did he say? – gonna 'get Yates an' that damned Larabee'. An' another name, Elijah, that came up too. Hey – you know them guys, huh?"  
  
Buck was staring off into the street, unseeing, his mind working furiously. From the sound of things, this guy was after Chris and Yates, and probably the others as well. Elijah – probably translated to Eli Joe. Even dead, that guy was nothing but bad news. His gut clenched painfully at the thought of his friends riding into trouble – if only he knew what kind of trouble. But they had left days ago – if he wanted to get Chris and Yates, why was he still here? He had to find out more.  
  
"Well, I'm off t'get some sleep," Molly announced casually, beginning to stand up. "That Adams fella wants me back t'his place this afternoon."  
  
Buck looked up at her, an idea quickly forming behind his eyes. "He does, huh?"  
  
"Yup," she said with a nod. "Sorry, darlin'."  
  
"Don't you go apologizin', now," Buck advised her, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Matter of fact, this could turn out t'be a right good thing."  
  
She looked at him, a puzzled expression on her pretty face.   
  
"Sounds like he's pretty loose–tounged when he's tuckered," Buck continued, stroking his chin in thought. "So happens Chris is a good friend of mine, an' I'd like t'know what he's got planned for 'im. Best way t'do that might be t'get him talkin' again."  
  
She laughed a little. "Hell, I can do that, Buck, I know a few things about pillow talkin'. What'll you do, listen at the keyhole?"  
  
Buck considered this. "Naw, the closet should work just fine."  
  
  
  
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.  
  
The hard soles of Chris's boots grated roughly on the rocky desert soil as he paced endlessly back and forth. His hat was off, his blonde hair disheveled and falling in his eyes. He didn't care.  
  
Behind him some distance away, at the campsite, he knew Nathan was treating Vin. God, he knew he'd never forget the sight of the bloody, unconscious tracker being brought in over Nathan's saddle. Chris had thought sure he was dead, and for one horrifying moment Chris himself had felt dead as well.   
  
But no, Nathan had assured him, Vin was alive but badly injured. Chris had helped the healer lift his friend to the ground; there were still smudges of Vin's blood on his coat, staining his black garb even blacker. Vin was so pale and still, his clothing ripped to crimson shreds. He looked as if he'd been attacked by a cougar.  
  
Now, behind him, Nathan was cleaning the wounds and stitching up his friend, his brother, and all Chris could do was wait. The anxiety was overwhelming; he was consumed with such furious energy that he felt he had to keep moving or he would die from the pressure. It was driving him insane.  
  
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.  
  
My fault, he thought as he whirled around to continue his short journey among the desolate clearing. If I hadn't killed Eli Joe, Vin would be free and whole, and we'd be back at Four Corners drinking whiskey and playing cards.   
  
Now he was paying for that instant of killing rage which had cost Eli Joe his life, and possibly Vin's as well. And Chris knew that if that happened, he would never be able to live with it.  
  
It swept over him again, that familiar burning passion, and for a moment he reveled in it, as if it were the well–known embrace of a returned lover. He wanted to find the bastard who did this to Vin and simply gun him down. No trial, no pretense at justice. Just shoot him down cold. He'd done it before, lots of times, years ago, for something as minor as a cross look. All thoughts of justice were forgotten; he wanted to kill the son of a bitch. As the fury boiled through him, Chris felt he could do it with his bare hands.  
  
He sat down heavily on a rock and rubbed his face with his hands, fighting down the demons which screamed inside of him. It felt so good to indulge in that wasteful hate, the rage which fed on his soul and only grew stronger. He had lived on it for years, but now – now he could see how it was threatening to devour him. It had already cost Vin a chance at freedom. He did not want to risk it costing him anything more.  
  
Chris sat still for many moments, beating back the fiends which clawed at his mind. Desperately he strove to calm the surging anguish searing his heart, and the dangerous impulses they provoked. Old memories stirred with the familiar urgings, of the dark days when Chris obeyed every reckless whim which arose, heedless of cost or consequence to himself or anyone else. It was a time he deeply wanted to believe was gone for good, and it was this desire which gave him the strength to fight back against the compelling darkness.  
  
He glanced back at the camp, but what spread out before his mind's eye was the town of Four Corners. It was there that the darkness had begun to recede, he realized, and it was for that town and the people in it that he had to make sure the darkness kept its distance. His men – they had given him their trust and friendship, and without even realizing it those gifts had slowly begun to heal a place in Chris's soul which he had believed would remain forever crippled. They had fought hard in the name of justice, and he could not allow himself to betray them by allowing his passions to drive him into the arms of lawlessness.  
  
"Chris!"  
  
He looked up, abruptly pulled from his reverie. Nathan was hurrying towards him, wiping his hands on a ragged cloth.  
  
Fear twisted Chris's gut, more fear than he had ever experienced before. He couldn't even bring himself to ask, and simply waited for Nathan to deliver the news.  
  
"He'll live," Nathan said quickly as he walked up to Chris. "He'll have t'travel in the wagon for a while, til he gets up the strength t'ride again."  
  
Chris sighed as a tremendous weight rolled from his shoulders; the rage subsided, mostly anyway. He raised his eyes to the healer and said in a low, husky voice, "Thank you, Nathan."  
  
Nathan smiled. "Don't thank me – Vin's as stubborn as they come. Take more'n a few scratches t'count him out."  
  
Chris shook his head in agreement and looked away, too overcome with relief to trust his voice any further. Nathan turned and began walking back towards camp, and Chris followed him, overwhelmed with a desire to see for himself that Vin would live.  
  
Vin was propped up by the fire, lying on a bedroll, his back leaning on a rock padded with blankets. His shirt was off, his chest and arms swathed with bandages. Purple bruises were forming on his face and body, their ugly forms clearly marked against his pale skin. His eyes were closed, but upon Chris's approach they opened a little and he gave the gunslinger a groggy smile.  
  
"Hey, cowboy," he rasped. Chris crouched next to him and nodded, his green eyes bright with relief.  
  
"Y'look like two miles of bad road," Chris replied.  
  
Vin winced. "Feel like it, too. But the other feller's worse off, trust me."  
  
"I believe that," Chris said firmly. "Anybody we know?"  
  
Vin leaned back and sighed, trying to think. "Nobody I ever seen before. Sure knew his way around a knife, though."  
  
The thunder of hoofbeats reached their ears, and Chris looked up to see JD and Josiah riding back, dusty and tired.  
  
"Searched a mile around, Chris," Josiah said as he reined in Prophet. "Didn't see a thing."  
  
"How's Vin?" JD asked, leaning forward in Hero's saddle to see.  
  
"Just a few briar scratches, JD," the tracker called with forced cheerfulness. "I'll be fine."  
  
"We best get on the trail," Chris aid, standing up. "If we're a target we'll be harder t'hit if we're movin'. JD, go clear out a space in the wagon for Vin; Josiah, I'd like you t'scout around when we start, make sure we're not bein'' followed."  
  
Both men nodded and rode off to prepare for the trip. Chris looked back down at Vin and crouched next to him again. "Feel up to travelin', Vin?"  
  
The tracker gave him a drowsy chuckle. "Hell yes, if it means I can find that fellar an' pay 'im back for this. With interest, like Ezra would say."  
  
Chris studied him for a moment, the light in his eyes one of vast relief. His brother was indeed still alive, and would fight to stay that way. He knew he could expect nothing less from the enigmatic bounty hunter, and the realization strengthened him for the trial ahead.  
  
"You go on an' rest up," Chris said as he rose, giving Vin a swift pat on the shoulder.  
  
"I'll see he does," Nathan promised, ignoring the good–natured groan from Vin. "We'll be ready t'move when you give the word."  
  
Chris nodded once, his face settling into harder lines. "All the words I got now are for Yates," he said with thinly disguised fury, and strode away.  
  
  
Yates smiled to himself as he sat against the wagon wheel, watching the excitement unfold around him. He was not the least bit concerned about the attack; he knew it was Hanley. They were coming to free him, and all he had to do was wait.  
  
So they got Tanner, he mused as he scratched at the stubble on his face. Good, maybe he'll die. Yates wanted Tanner to die, just because he knew how much it would hurt Larabee. The fact that he despised Tanner as well only added to his anticipation.  
  
Look at them, he thought as he watched that preacher riding out again to patrol. Breakin' their necks to keep the law when it was so much easier and more profitable to ignore it. Yates had learned long ago that it was the outlaws who had all the fun and kept all the money, and who didn't want that? Those damn marshals and deputies could spout that garbage about justice all day, but Yates knew it was all just an excuse. They were simply too cowardly to take risks and grab what they could for themselves.   
  
"All right, Yates, I want some answers."  
  
Yates looked up calmly to see Larabee striding towards him, hat off, his green eyes flashing with anger. Yates didn't flinch; he knew this man couldn't touch him.  
  
"I ain't got nothin' t'say," Yates replied, and pulled his hat over his eyes as a signal that the conversation was over.  
  
Within two seconds the hat was whipped violently from Yates' head, and Larabee had grabbed his collar and was hoisting him halfway into the air, his furious countenance less that two inches away. Yates was startled, and, he had to admit, a little frightened now.  
  
"Don't gimme that bull!" Larabee spat, his eyes wide with passion. "I think you know who attacked us an' almost killed Vin, an' I want you to start talkin' NOW."  
  
"Now how the hell would I know that, Larabee?" Yates said, regaining some of his sass. "You think I know every bandit gang around here?"  
  
"Ain't no bandit gangs way out here," Larabee snarled, tightening his grip on Yates' collar. "That bunch followed us, an' I think it's you they're after. I should just kill you an' save 'em the trouble."  
  
A slow smile oozed across Yates' face. "You want to – I can see that. But you ain't like that no more, are you? Got a shiny badge an' a Judge's blessing. You don't just shoot down men in cold blood like you used to."  
  
"I ain't forgot how," was the fiercely whispered reply, before Larabee threw Yates back against the wagon wheel.   
  
Yates gathered himself up again, highly amused as he watched Larabee's struggle reflected in those glaring green eyes. "Yeah, you proved that with Eli Joe, didn't you? Bet it felt real good t'put a bullet in him. Just like old times. Or is this whole lawman thing just a cover, so you can be a killer and get away with it?"  
  
Larabee stared at him for a minute, and Yates briefly feared he'd gone too far, and that he was about to be shot. But Larabee simply crouched down in front of him and slowly leaned forward, until they were once more almost nose to nose.  
  
"You wanna keep on bein' a smart–ass, Yates? You go right ahead." Larabee smiled, and that smile sent an involuntary shiver up Yates' spine. "Cause it might be fun t'see how many of my old habits I can remember. But I don't think you'd like it too much."  
  
Larabee stood. "It's your choice," he said, and threw Yates' hat in his face with violent force before walking away.  
  
The outlaw scowled at Larabee's back. Damn lawman, he thought sourly, pulling his hat back on. We'll see how uppity he is after Hanley an' the boys ride in. Bet he won't feel so high an' mighty when he's bleedin' his guts out on the ground.  
  
Yates folded his arms and leaned back against the wagon wheel, not wanting to take notice of the fact that he was shaking.  
  
  
  
"You stupid IDIOT!"  
  
Hanley's furious words echoed off the cave walls, as did the sharp cracking sound his fist made as it crashed across Trent's jaw. The younger man went tumbling to the ground from the force of the blow, landing with a heavy grunt. Around him stood or sat the rest of their group, their forms erratically lit by the dancing flames of a small fire as they passively watched Hanley beat their comrade. Ezra was the only one missing.   
  
A short distance away Pony sat treating Dark Sun's wounds. Her small hands moved skillfully as they cleaned and bandaged the bloody cuts coverinh his upper body, her thin lips pursed with concentration. The patient never moved or uttered a sound as he stared into the fire, and Pony kept her attention focused on her work, not at all unnerved by the young man's complete detachment.   
  
Hanley's huge fire-lit form towered over the fallen dandy, an orange demon trembling with fury.  
  
"What the HELL were you thinking?" Hanley roared, grabbing Trent by his blood–flecked collar and shaking him violently. "I told you not to tangle with them yet, damn you! Now they know we're here, and Dark Sun almost got killed!"  
  
"I didn't think they'd see us!" Trent shot back, one hand wiping at the blood which trickled out of his mouth as he lay on the ground. His clothes were disheveled, his face marked with forming bruises. "I would've had that kid's throat slit in no time if that clumsy Southerner hadn't blown our cover!"  
  
"Don't go blaming Standish for this!" Hanley growled, pacing around Trent like a hungry tiger. "At least he knows how to follow orders. Now thanks to you, they'll be doubling their patrols, and it'll be a damn sight harder to get close to them."  
  
"Yates probably told 'em who we are," Stan added, glowering at Trent. "They'll call out the Army. An' I ain't gonna let 'em take me back t'prison!"  
  
"Oh c'mon, Stan, they're out in the middle of the desert – there ain't no Army here," Pony chided as she tied off the last of Dark Sun's bandages.  
  
"But they won't be that way for long," Hanley said angrily, still pacing. "They're closing in on Tascosa, an' we have to get them before they reach it."  
  
He sat down on a rock and rubbed his chin with one huge hand, deep in thought. Trent slowly dragged himself to his feet; the others glared at him but offered no assistance. Throwing a deadly glare at Hanley, the young man picked up his battered silk hat, wiped his bleeding mouth on his sleeve, and sat down, not daring to look at his comrades.  
  
"Okay," Hanley said finally, stirring. "We'll have to stay out of their way for a day or so – let them relax a bit and think we're gone. They'll be coming up to Dutchman Pass soon – we can take them there as planned and there'll be noone to help them."  
  
"Good," Lew, the hired gun, muttered as he nervously fingered his weapon. "Glad things are heatin' up. This job's been pretty borin' so far."  
  
"Oh, it's about to get very exciting," Hanley promised him. He glanced at Trent and walked up to stand in front of him.  
  
"As for you," he breathed, "one more stunt like that and I'll have Dark Sun disembowel you alive." He reached down and gathered Trent's collar in one hand, lifting him slightly from his seat. "Understand?"  
  
Trent's eyes widened and he glanced to where Dark Sun sat in the shadows, a cool motionless figure watching it all. He turned his head back to Hanley and nodded, a smoldering fury in his eyes.  
  
"Good," Hanley said casually, pushing Trent away and ignoring him as the young man toppled from his rock. "We'll follow our targets at a good distance. Lew, you an' Stan go keep an eye on our friends – and watch out for patrols. I don't want any more mistakes."  
  
The two men rose and obeyed, neither of them sparing Trent or Dark Sun a glance as they left. Hanley made his way to where Pony was washing out some rags.  
  
"Can he fight?" he asked her gruffly, looking at where Dark Sun was hunched over in the shadowsstaring at nothing. His body was rocking gently back and forth in a slow, rhythmic motion.  
  
She shrugged. "Yeah, I think so. He's gotta rest up, but he probably won't. Says he can put himself in a healin' trance an' be ready t'move by mornin'."  
  
Hanley grunted. "He may drop dead at his leisure long as he's able to help us get Larabee and his damned crew." He glanced around. "Where's Standish?"  
  
Pony stood. "He went outside while you was whuppin' Trent. Said he had some things t'think about. I think he feels bad for trippin' and shootin' his gun."  
  
Her boss shook his head as he walked past her. "Not half as bad as he'll feel if he does that again."  
  
Pony eyed him with worry as he stalked away, then went to carry out the basin of dirty water and see if she could find Ezra.  
  
  
Ezra sat alone on a rock just outside the cave, the hot afternoon wind softly ruffling his brown hair. His hat was in his hands, his supple fingers idly running along the smooth brim, around and around. Although Ezra's eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, he saw nothing of the red–yellow rocks or desolate plains which stretched before him. His gaze was directed deep within himself, and he sat as oblivious to the view before him as if he were blind.  
  
It had all seemed so clear just a few days ago. He was going to leave Four Corners and his false friends behind, strike out anew, and regain the riches he had lost. He had been determined to shuffle off his old associations like a soiled shirt. Now it appeared such an action would not be quite so easy.  
  
Could he believe it, when JD said he was sorry for what had happened? Not so long ago he would have scoffed at any such declaration, but – the boy seemed sincere, and there was no way he could have known that Ezra was listening. And Josiah too had seemed contrite. Suddenly hating them was not as easy as it had been.   
  
But – but – dammit, if they really felt that way, why didn't they say so? Ezra asked himself as the old anger flared again. If they could face bullets without flinching, they could certainly deliver an apology.  
  
JD's words drifted through his mind: "He should've let us know what was goin' on, Josiah. It almost feels – like he didn't trust us enough t'tell us."  
  
Ezra chuckled bitterly – as if they couldn't see what was happening to his saloon! What did JD expect him to do, come and ask for their help when it was their fault his business was failing? Ezra Standish did not crawl to others begging for assistance. He stood alone, and if need be, fell alone.   
  
That firm assertion rang emptily in his heart, where before it had sounded with certainty. Ezra frowned to himself and studied this fact. It was true, wasn't it? He had never needed anyone before, and didn't now. Nothing that had happened to him at Four Corners could have changed him that much.  
  
But still...He glanced behind him at the cave, and thought of Hanley in there beating the hell out of Trent. None of the others in the gang seemed interested in stopping him. Other images drifted across his mind's eye, Hanley shooting that man in the back, the open greed and viciousness of the group, their casual abuse of the child Pony. They were men without restraint, but worse, without honor.  
  
And Larabee's group...Ezra tilted his head, running one hand through his hair as he thought. They were rough, wild men, but he could not say they were without honor. He had seen them, time and again, place their lives on the line for a mere pittance. They all had their own dark secrets and blood on their souls, yet still retained the humanity to give a damn. Ezra had known enough lawmen who cared nothing for justice to see that Larabee and his men were not cut from the same coarse cloth. He had not realized how rare the spirit of their circle had been until now, when he was outside of it.  
  
He thought of the sight of Dark Sun riding back, covered with blood and almost dead. Ezra could still feel his gut burning with horror at the questions his mind instantly raised – who had Dark Sun been fighting with? Had he killed one of them? He had spent what seemed like an eternity in suspenseful agony while the blonde youth was grilled by a furious Hanley, his tale told without any signs of emotion or pain as Pony stitched him up. Dark Sun had fought another long–haired man – Vin, Ezra realized – but didn't kill him. Relief had washed through Ezra then, although he had to hide it carefully.  
  
Now he had to wonder where such strong feelings had come from. Two days ago he was hating these men and resenting Vin. Yet when he believed them to be in danger, he could not repress the sensation of concern which overpowered the anger. It was as if he were still bound to them, and a threat to their safety was a threat to his as well.  
  
Ezra fidgeted and gazed over the baking rocks, puzzled by the conflicting emotions welling in his heart. He was still hurt and angry over what had happened, but he found himself missing that shining circle. Perhaps it was not as closed to him as had imagined. JD and Josiah, at least, seemed to regret their actions. Nathan didn't seem to, he noted bitterly, but that was hardly surprising.  
  
Another side of his soul gave reply to his musings; should he really be so careless with his heart again? These men had had their chance with his association, and had clearly demonstrated their disregard for it. Only a fool would return to such a situation, and Ezra was no fool. The guilt which apparently tormented JD and Josiah was not strong enough to drive them to apologize to him, was it? None of them had offered him so much as a token of regret. It would be naive of him to return to their company purely on the basis of sentimentality.   
  
And now their lives were in danger. Ezra felt a strange terror surge through him at the thought that Chris and the others might be killed, an emotion strictly at variance with the anger he still felt towards them. His instincts shouted at him to escape, but his common sense intervened. Not only would Hanley kill him, but he would be cut off from any further knowledge of Hanley's plans. And Pony would be left behind, doubtless fated to go on believing that taking care of yourself was all that mattered.  
  
A belief Ezra himself had once sworn by.  
  
"Ezra!"  
  
He turned to see Pony climbing up the rocks towards him. He quickly composed himself, putting his troubling thoughts aside for the moment. "Has your leader tired of flailing our young compatriot?"  
  
Pony grunted. "He could wear both arms out an' still not beat any sense into Trent. After this is over he'll probably just shoot 'im."  
  
He studied her. "And you would have no remorse over such an act?"  
  
She seated herself on a neighboring rock and gave him a puzzled look. "Hell, no. Why should I?"  
  
He considered his answer. "I merely assumed that your association might have sparked some kinship among yourselves."  
  
She chuckled in disbelief. "That crew in there'd slit each other's throats for ten dollars."  
  
Ezra eyed her carefully. "Even you?"  
  
She glanced at him, then looked away quickly, as if embarrassed. "I thought once that maybe I'd found a family. Learned the truth fast enough. Like I told you, nobody cares about nobody these days."  
  
They were silent for a few minutes.  
  
Ezra leaned forward on his knees, idly twirling his hat slowly in his hands. "I knew some men once who might change your mind on that score, my dear. They were no saints, believe me, but justice meant more to them than something to be sneered at."  
  
She studied him. "Them men you talked about before? I thought they crossed you."  
  
He shifted a little, still uncomfortable at the memory. "Yes, well, their manners may have been lacking, but their convictions certainly were not. I saw them risk their lives many times in the name of justice."  
  
Pony looked at him for a moment, and Ezra thought he saw a yearning to believe lurking beneath those brown eyes. Then she shook her head, the hard veil dropping once again.  
  
"I never heard of no such thing," she said firmly. "Only justice men care about is the kind they make for themselves. Like Hanley wantin' t'kill Yates."  
  
So that's it, Ezra thought, although his face betrayed no recognition of the name. "Is that what we're doing in this charming backwater?"  
  
Pony nodded. "Them lawmen killed our leader Eli Joe, an' we're avengin' his blood."  
  
Ezra looked up at her and put his hat on. "They might not take kindly to being attacked. Suppose it's your own blood that gets spilled?"  
  
She gave a careless shrug. "Then I reckon I'll be dead."  
  
His green eyes saddened as he looked at this young girl who was already so tired of life. "This Eli Joe must have been very special to you."  
  
"Ha!" Pony barked. "He was a scum like the rest of 'em. He found me on the streets an' took me in, but it weren't out of the goodness of his heart. He didn't have none."  
  
Ezra frowned. "Then why die for nothing?"  
  
Pony pondered the question and looked at him seriously. "Beats livin' for nothin'."  
  
After an awkward moment of silence she slapped him on the arm. "Now c'mon, before Hanley comes lookin' for us. He don't want anyone out here where we might get spotted."  
  
She turned and began climbing quickly back to the cave, as if trying to escape any further conversation. Ezra rose and followed her, his heart and mind still in turmoil.  
  
  
  
The hot afternoon sun glared through the worn – out curtains of the cheap rented room, but neither of its two residents were bothered by the brightness, or the heat it created. As they rolled and pitched on the cheap iron bed, the amount of light in the room was among their least concerns.  
  
Finally the woman stopped and sat up, wiping her brow with one hand as she pulled at the strap of her tousled dress with the other. "Say, darlin'," she breathed, "how about another drink of that there whiskey?"  
  
Her partner grinned at her, although age had robbed him of many of his teeth. "Sure thing, Miss Molly – that's what it's here for!" He grabbed a half – empty bottle from the rickety table beside the bed and handed it to her with a smile. "But don't go gettin' drunk before I get my money's worth outta you."  
  
She emitted a somewhat forced laugh and took a swig before replacing the bottle. "Don't you worry on me, Mr. Adams, I know just what I'm doin. Say, sugar," she purred as she settled back down next to him, "you know you talk in your sleep?"  
  
"Yeah?" Adams replied with amusement, then chuckled. "Guess I have been told that."  
  
"You sure do," she giggled. "Who's this Larabee fella?"  
  
Adams made a disgusted sound. "He ain't nobody, darlin'. Some no – count hired gun. Just like that Wilmington guy."  
  
"He must be simply an awful man," Molly said in an impressed tone as she stroked his thin gray hair.  
  
"Shit, honey, he's nothin'," Adams spat. "Wait a bit, you'll see. You won't be hearin' 'bout him no more."  
  
Molly gasped. "You gonna jump 'im?"  
  
Adams paused. "Well, not me. They didn't think I'd be able t'handle it. Can you believe that?"  
  
Molly laughed. "Not after last night!"  
  
She gave him a hungry kiss, which he returned with relish.  
  
"So this Larabee's gonna get his, huh?" Molly mumbled around his lips. "Can I come and watch it? I never seen a man jumped before."  
  
Adams snorted. "Aw hell, that's gonna be a long way from here. Ever hear of Tascosa?"  
  
"No!" Molly breathed in a completely brainless voice, disengaging her lips from his. "Where's that?"  
  
"In Texas," Adams replied, and Buck saw him put his arms around her with an anticipatory smile. "That's where Larabee's goin', and we're gonna take 'em before they get there, smack dang in the middle of nowhere at a gorge name of Dutchman Pass. No place for 'em t'hide." He laughed.  
  
"Sounds like Larabee ain't the only one you're after," Molly observed.  
  
"Nope," was the proud reply. "It's Larabee's whole gang we're after, me an' some other men he's crossed. We'll have us some mighty fine trophies when we're done. Maybe I'll take you down t'Mexico with me, an' you can be my gal. That'd show that damn Wilmington up good. Huh!"  
  
"This all sounds so violent and awful," Molly said as she propped herself up on her elbows. "Why on earth do you want to hurt them poor men?"  
  
Adams glared at her and sighed. "Dammit, gal, I ain't payin' you t'keep askin' me stupid questions. I don't figure I'm through my twenty dollars yet."  
  
Anger flashed through her dark blue eyes for just a moment, but it was quickly replaced by a sweet, brainless smile as slid back down towards him. "Oh, I'm sorry, angel pie." She kissed him. "I'll just shut my silly li'l mouth."  
  
"You do that," Adams said in a muffled voice. "I hates talky women."  
  
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "Tell you what – you close your eyes an' I'll give you a nice big surprise. How's that?"  
  
"Now them's the kind of words I like, gal."  
  
He closed his eyes, smiling in anticipation as she slid from the bed.  
  
"Can I open 'em yet?" he asked impatiently after several minutes had passed.  
  
No reply.  
  
"You there, gal?"  
  
CLICK.  
  
Startled, he opened his eyes wide to find himself staring down the shiny silver barrel of a Remington. The hated eyes of Buck Wilmington were glaring down at him, full of anger and suspicion. Molly stood behind him, and behind them both was the open door of the room's small, empty closet. Before Adams could say a word Buck grabbed his collar in a vise – like grip.  
  
"Got a few questions for you, friend," Buck growled in a deadly whisper.  
  
Adams' glare was just as lethal. "Go to hell," he spat, and grabbing the half – empty bottle of whiskey smashed it against Buck's skull. Buck staggered back, momentarily stunned; seizing his chance, Adams' hand dove under his pillow, withdrawing a small revolver. He leapt to his feet and lunged for the door, pausing only long enough to point his gun at Buck and fire one bullet at his adversary. Buck toppled to the floor as Molly's scream rent the air, while Adams thundered down the wooden stairway and disappeared.  
  
  
  
One painful eternity later, Buck opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh afternoon sun shining across his face. His left arm hurt like hell, and he groaned.  
  
"Buck? Can you hear me, honey?"  
  
"Ooooh," Buck groaned again, trying to sit up; he saw through swimming eyes that he was in his own room, and someone was bending over him. "Molly girl?"  
  
Soft hands restrained him, trying to push him back down. He saw that it was indeed Molly, looking a little more weary than before. Her sleeves were rolled up and small spots of blood flecked her faded blue dress. "Course it's me. You best lie still, he winged ya pretty good."  
  
Buck sighed, put a hand to his head, then sat up quickly, fully awake as he looked around. "He – where'd he go?"  
  
Molly shook her head as she sat back, her tight black curls dancing with the motion. "Reckon he's gone. Couple of the townfolk looked all over for 'im, but he's plumb vanished."  
  
"Hell he has," Buck breathed, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. "He's gone to t'kill Chris an' the others."  
  
"Now Buck honey you just stay out," Molly breathed anxiously as she saw Buck wobble a bit. "You're still woozy, an' God knows y'can't ride with your arm like that."  
  
Buck glanced down at the bandage which was wrapped tightly just above his elbow. "Darlin', I've pounded the trail with two broken arms. This here's just a scratch, an' it'll take more'n that t'keep me here when my friends are in trouble."  
  
He stood, a tad unsteady at first, but by the time he'd gathered his coat and hat his stride was firm, and he took the stairs two at a time.  
  
"But Buck!" Molly called as she trotted down the stairs after him. "How on earth will you find them?"  
  
"Chris told me what way they were takin'," Buck called behind him as he clambered down the steps. "Reckon I'll just ride like hell an' rely on the ol' Wilmington luck."  
  
They arrived at the first floor, Buck talking as he shrugged on his coat. "I got to get someone t'watch over things while I'm gone, an' then I'm hittin' the trail. That Adams fella means t'do Chris harm, an' besides – " he looked at her seriously – " he still owes you twenty dollars."  
  
He gave her a brief, firm kiss, then dashed out the door. She watched him go, a little dazed but definitely impressed, then turned to make her way back upstairs, her heart saying a silent prayer for the handsome gunslinger and his friends.  
  
  
  
The sound of horses' hooves and the rattle of a ramshackle wagon filled the hot desert air as the small party made its way through the desolate landscape. The setting sun cut long ebony shadows across the rugged plains and sharp – edged grasses, and bathed the travelers in a brilliant yellow – orange light. Chris's black duster billowed as he rode a circuit around the riders and the wagon, keeping an eye on the surrounding rocks and mesas, looking for trouble.   
  
They could be anywhere, he thought angrily as his horse kicked up large plumes of golden dust. Despite their caution, they'd been bushwhacked, and Chris was determined not to let it happen again.   
  
"See anything?" he yelled to Josiah as the preacher rode over to him from the other side of the trail.  
  
"Nope," was the terse reply as a dust–covered Josiah pulled alongside Chris. "Whoever they were, they're either long gone or damn good at hidin'."  
  
"Got a feelin' they're still tailin' us," Chris said above the hoofbeats and clatter of the wagon as he looked at the surrounding landscape with concern. "keep a sharp eye out."  
  
"As always," the preacher said in a good–natured tone as he tapped the brim of his hat.   
  
Chris nodded and rode on, reining in just behind the wagon. Vin lay in the shaded vehicle, propped up on his elbows and watching the barren landscape go by. His hat and shirt lay by his side, and Chris frowned at the tracker's still–too–pale complexion. But at least he was conscious now.  
  
"How you doin', Vin?" he asked, trying to keep Valor in pace with the rolling wagon.  
  
"Feel like a damn baby ridin' around like this," Vin griped. "Wish Nathan'd let me ride."  
  
"Maybe tomorrow," Chris said, unable to suppress a grin at his friend's impatience.  
  
Vin looked up at him. "Hey, I think I might know who cut me up."  
  
"Yeah?" Chris yelled as Valor danced a bit. "Who?"  
  
"While I was livin' with the Indians I heard tell of a white feller who'd been raised by some Sioux," Vin replied, his blue eyes becoming distant. "They said he went crazy an' killed the family that raised 'im, then lit out. That fellar had yellow hair just like this one – reckon it's the same. He sure acted plumb crazy."  
  
"Hm." Chris looked off and was silent for a few minutes. The sun was almost set, the sky overhead a riot of deep azure blues and royal purples tinged with gold. Then his gaze swung back to Vin. "It's about time we tried to loosen Yates' tongue a bit. if he don't wanna talk by the time we reach Tascosa this whole trip will be a waste of time."  
  
Vin sighed, a disgusted look creeping onto his boyishly handsome face. "I been tryin' t'think what we can do, but even a punch'd show. We can't have 'im tellin' no jury we beat the confession out of 'im."  
  
Chris shook his head, squinting into the sun and dust. "Maybe with scum like Yates we don't need to use force."  
  
Vin tilted his head. "What you thinkin' on, Chris?"  
  
The black–clad gunslinger turned a smiling face to his friend. "Most men like Yates are just cowards at heart. Reckon all we need t'do is give 'im somethin' t'be afraid of."  
  
Vin smiled as well.  
  
  
  
Far away from Chris's group, Hanley and Lew sat watching the tiny figures of their prey, unwilling to get any closer for fear of encountering the patrolling gunslingers.  
  
"What you think?" Lew finally said, after they had been observing the distant party for some time.  
  
Hanley frowned, his eyes still on the diminishing forms. "I think waiting til they reach Dutchman Pass will only give them more time to find us." He looked at Lew, his eyes hard. "There's been a change in plan," he said simply, and began riding back towards camp. Lew eyed the endangered line of riders with anticipatory glee, then whirled and followed his boss.  
  
  
  
Buck bent over the neck of his horse, urging the beast onward as they tore across the darkening desert. He looked up at the sky, now turning a deep purple, and silently rejoiced at the sight of a full moon. With its light, hopefully, he could reach Chris and the others before they were attacked.   
  
He'd hoped to overtake Adams – if that was his real name – but had seen no sign of the older man. Probably taking a different route, Buck surmised, wincing as his wounded arm protested the violent jostling it received. But he couldn't think on that now – his only goal was to keep riding as long as he could, and find his friends before it was too late.  
  
  
  
"How long are we gonna sit on our asses? This is ridiculous!"  
  
Trent's irritated voice bounced off the cavern walls, earning him looks of annoyance and boredom from his compatriots as they waited for Pony to finish cooking dinner. Only Hanley and Lew were missing; the rest were lounging around the wide–mouthed cave, cleaning their weapons.   
  
"Don't carp too loud, Trent," Pony said as she poked the fire over which roasted two good–sized rabbits. "It's your fault they spotted us."  
  
Trent made an explosive sound of anger and pointed at Ezra, who was busy mending his jacket. "The hell it was! Standish is the guy who shot his gun off. If it hadn't been for him, that kid'd be dead right now and we'd have one less gun to fight."  
  
"And whose idea was it to attack that youth in the first place?" Ezra asked dryly without looking up. "Against our leader's instructions, I might add."  
  
"Yeah, Trent," Stan agreed from where he lounged on the floor, hands behind his head. "Hanley was about to shoot you for that, ya know."  
  
"Yeah, well, what about Dark Sun?" the young dandy retorted, nodding at the still figure who sat in the shadows at the far end of the cave, engulfed once more in his healing trance. "He jumped one of 'em, for God's sake, and almost got killed. I don't see nobody chewin' HIM out."  
  
Stan grunted. "That's cause we don't want slit throats. "'Sides, he did good – almost killed that lawman he fought."  
  
None of them noticed Ezra as he winced.  
  
"You couldn't even stick the guy you went after," Stan concluded.  
  
Trent sputtered and threw his hands up. "I get no respect from this group! I should go back to pickin' pockets in Tuscon."  
  
"You want out, Trent, I'll happily oblige."  
  
The cavern fell silent at the sound of that stern voice, and the group watched quietly as Hanley and Lew entered the fire – lit circle. The large man's black eyes glittered with menace as he regarded his young hired gun.  
  
"Course, you might not like it all that much," Hanley continued, frowning at Trent's obstinate glare. Then he swept them all with steely eyes. "Listen up. There's been a change in plans."  
  
The outlaws gazed at him in casual interest, Ezra in dire concern.  
  
"We were gonna jump them lawmen at Dutchman Pass, but they won't get there for three days yet, and we have to stop them now before they find us. About a day and a half's ride from here is the river – they'll have t'ford that, an' we'll catch 'em out there."  
  
"Sounds good t'me," Pony said in a disinterested voice as she stuck one of the rabbits with a knife. Clear juices dribbled into the fire, landing with a loud hiss on the flaming wood.  
  
"I want patrols at night to keep an eye out," Hanley went on. "Stan, you ride out tonight, Standish tomorrow night. Next day we finish our work an' head for Mexico."  
  
"Woo! Bout time," Trent yipped, twirling his gun with a smile. "Think I'll pay that kid a visit when we attack. This time he won't know what hit 'im."  
  
Lew, the hired gun, laughed as he sat by the fire. "Hell, where's the fun in that, fancy–pants? You gotta make 'im suffer first. It's what revenge is all about."  
  
"They'll suffer all right," Hanley swore as he sat on a rock and took off his hat, staring into the fire with an expression of grim determination. "I don't care what you all do, or how you do it, but before we ride to Mexico I want all of those men and Yates dead."  
  
Trent laughed. "Sounds like we have permission to be creative," he said with a happy smile.  
  
"I can hardly wait," Lew agreed, and laughed as well.  
  
General murmurs of assent passed among the group. The only silent members were Ezra, who sat quietly lost in thought as dread knotted his stomach, and Dark Sun, who remained in the shadows, his half–naked body gently rocking back and forth, his eyes staring into the darkness, as wild and driven as ever.  
  
  
  
Chris stepped carefully over the rock–strewn ground as he made his way towards the campfire carrying his bed roll and a canteen. Nearby, Vin, JD and Nathan were getting some much–needed sleep, and somewhere out in the moonlit darkness Josiah was on the lookout for any more unwelcome visitors. Yates was in the wagon, securely tied against escape. After a hard day's ride, all was finally quiet. Except for Chris's heart.  
  
He walked softly into the orange glow, and was surprised to see Vin awake and sitting up against a rock staring idly at the star – strewn skies. His shirt was off, exposing his carefully bandaged chest and arms. Chris sighed with brotherly impatience and walked over.  
  
Vin saw him and nodded at the sky. "Full moon," he said, a trace of humor in his voice. "Might explain all this craziness we been fightin' lately."  
  
Chris sat next to him and offered the canteen. "More likely just the old craziness gettin' worse," he observed.  
  
"May be," Vin assented before accepting the canteen and taking a swallow.  
  
Chris watched him for a moment, noticing how stark the cuts and bruises on his face appeared in the dim light. "How you feelin'?"  
  
The other man sighed as he wiped his lips on his bare arm. "Still plumb lousy, but I reckon I can ride. Figured I'd try it tomorrow, if Nathan don't shoot me for it."  
  
He handed the canteen back to Chris, who took a drink himself and nodded. "Good. Sooner we get to Tascosa the sooner we can throw Yates to the judge there an' get your name cleared."  
  
Vin smiled a bit as he regarded his friend. "Well, the man's about as friendly as a cornered rat."  
  
"He's about as charming as one, too," Chris griped, putting the canteen down. "Came this close to puttin' a bullet between his eyes."  
  
Vin grunted as he leaned back, putting one arm behind his head as he looked upward. "You stopped yourself, that's the important thing."  
  
Chris took a deep breath, his green eyes quiet in the flickering firelight. "Guess so," he said thoughtfully, staring into the gyrating light. "Still scared the hell out of me."  
  
"Got no cause t'be scared, Chris," Vin said, turning his head slightly to look at his friend. "The fact Yates is still breathin' proves that."  
  
Chris sat silently for a moment, then clasped his hands together and leaned forward a little, resting his chin on the folded fingers as he gazed into the fire. "You ain't known me for all that long, Vin. After Sarah an' Adam died, I didn't care nothin' for nobody. Hell, I might've been one of them bounties you were after, what with all the men I've shot an' all the places I tore up."  
  
Vin smiled a little, his blue eyes full of sympathy as he watched Chris closely.  
  
The black–clad man swallowed. "I thought for sure that rage would kill me, but it didn't. That just made me angrier. Been a long time since I put a bullet in a man just for the fun of it, but I remember what it felt like. Felt like my heart was just a mess of ice that wouldn't never feel nothin' again." He shuddered and ran one hand through his loose blonde hair.  
  
Vin studied Chris carefully, then softly said, "But you ain't that way no more, Chris. We all know that."  
  
Chris shook his head, despair in his eyes as he looked at Vin. "I don't, Vin. Sometimes the killin' rage comes on me, an' it takes all I got t'beat it back. That's what happened with Eli Joe."  
  
Vin nodded in understanding, his face grim.  
  
"Only thing is," Chris continued, directing his eyes anywhere but at Vin, "I can't be sorry I shot him. I'm sorry he ain't alive to clear your name, but when I thought he was going to kill you..." Chris trailed off, his voice choking. He looked down at the ground. "I was never so glad t'shoot nobody in my life, an no matter how I look at it, that doesn't change." He looked back up at Vin, the turmoil plain in his face. "An' that's what makes me wonder if the killer in me is really dead after all."  
  
He sighed and sat back, frowning as he watched the fire.   
  
Vin was silent for a few moments, then spoke, his words soft. "I run across a lot of cold–blooded killers in my day, Chris, an' I can tell you, you ain't one of 'em, at least not no more. The fact you're worried about it says you still got a heart, an' that's what you got t'hang on to."  
  
Chris folded his hands again and turned his gaze to the fire. "I been lookin' for peace for a long time, Vin. Thought I'd finally found it with this job. Now I'm wonderin' if I'll ever have peace again, or if the demons'll win out after all."  
  
The other man regarded him for a moment, then sighed. "That's somethin' only you can figure out, Chris. But I know who I'd put my money on."  
  
He gave the gunslinger a quiet smile, then directed his gaze back at the blazing stars overhead. Chris smiled a little at this statement, then leaned back and returned to staring into the fire, increasingly lost in thought as the silence of the warm desert night enveloped them both.  
  
  
  
The pounding of the horse's hooves as it thundered along the moonlit desert plain was matched only by the terrified thudding of the heart in its master's breast. Gray had been riding like the devil since leaving Four Corners, but had lost none of the fear which ate at him as he flew along.  
  
He wasn't even sure why he was trying to catch up to Hanley and the others. They would certainly shoot him for botching this assignment. But he had to leave town after shooting Wilmington, and there was nowhere else for him to go.   
  
A smile spread over Gray's stubbled face. It had been a stupid thing to do, but it sure felt great putting a slug in that young Yankee. Maybe he killed him, that would be even better. The fear eased a bit as a warm, satisfied feeling flowed through his tired body. All the youth and handsome looks in the world stood little chance against a bullet. It felt good to remember that.  
  
Maybe if he told Hanley he killed that last lawman, Hanley wouldn't shoot him. A small hope struggled to life in his chest as he thought on it. Then they could go kill the rest of them, and Gray could get his share of the money and run to Mexico. Maybe this would all work out after all.  
  
He looked up to see the purple–pink light of dawn tinting the eastern sky. He should reach them soon, if he didn't stop too often. Then, he thought with a smile, we'll see that Wilmington has plenty of company in Hell.  
  
Gray rode on, entertaining himself with the memory of killing Buck Wilmington.  
  
  
  
Pony scowled as she guided her horse down the untraveled desert trail beside her fellow outlaws. It had been an early morning for all of them, and now, with the sun almost at noon, they had been riding for almost six hours. Yet in all that time, she had not heard Ezra mutter one word.  
  
She rode along, listening to her comrades argue and brag and keeping an eye on Dark Sun to make sure he wasn't swaying in the saddle. Ezra, she noticed, was riding towards the back of the group, with what looked like a sad expression on his face.  
  
For some reason, she felt worried about this, and since no one in the group was paying any attention to her she had plenty of leisure time to puzzle out the situation. At first she shrugged it off – he was just a hired gun, she'd seen plenty of those, why should she care about this one?  
  
But still, she found herself glancing at him, just every once in a while, to see if he was all right. Then she'd catch herself and look away, her mind yelling at her to mind her own business. Despite his fancy words he'd turn out to be like the others.  
  
Her brown eyes wandered over to where Hanley and Stan were talking rather heatedly, to where Trent was bragging to Lew about all the men he'd shot, and Dark Sun riding stiff and silent. No, she thought, she had to admit she really didn't think this Ezra guy was like them. None of them ever cared what happened to her like he seemed to, or tried to protect her. She recalled that when Hanley had shot that deserter in the back, everyone else just laughed, but Ezra – well, he almost looked like he thought it was wrong. This was so unusual that Pony was dying to ask him about it.  
  
But Ezra didn't seem to want to talk anymore, she sighed to herself as she eyed him again. He was still riding silently along, his eyes staring at something only he could see. Maybe he's gone crazy, like Dark Sun, she thought, and shuddered. But no, that wasn't it. He looked sad. But they were going to get rid of their enemies and maybe even make a few dollars. Why would that make anyone sad?  
  
Pony turned her eyes back to the road, frowning. She should stop this, it would make her sloppy and careless. Ezra would soon be dead, or gone, and his fancy words would be so much wasted air. Another nice dream faded by the glare of the unrelenting sun.  
  
"Still," she thought as she glanced back at him, "still maybe I better check on him. If he's going loony it'll put the rest of us in danger."  
  
With this excuse firmly in mind, Pony wheeled her horse around and trotted up next to Ezra, who continued to stare thoughtfully at the road ahead.  
  
She slapped his arm. "Hey!"  
  
Ezra jumped and looked at her in surprise, as if he had just awoke from a dream and was unsure of where he was. Then he managed a feeble smile and tipped his hat, but said nothing.   
  
"You're sure quiet today," Pony chided him. "Finally run out of them fancy words?"  
  
Ezra chuckled a little and looked away. "My apologies, my dear," he said, "I find myself hardly in a talkative mood today."  
  
Pony grunted. "You better not be thinkin' on runnin'. You'll have a bunch of bullets in your back."  
  
Ezra shook his head. "Rest assured I am not in danger of absconding from your charming group," he said, putting a slightly sarcastic spin on the final few words. "I was merely in contemplation."  
  
Pony gave him a curious look. "'Bout what?"  
  
He glanced at her, and Pony thought he looked almost startled. Something else was lurking there too – he looked like he was in some sort of pain.  
  
"Is it them friends of yours you was talkin' about?" she guessed.   
  
The look of surprise grew on his face, and he smiled a little. "You are remarkably astute, Miss Pony."  
  
She stared at him, uncertain how to react to both the word and the compliment. At least it sounded like a compliment. "I am? Is that a good thing?"  
  
Ezra shrugged. "It is to some. To others it causes only grief." He sighed and looked away.   
  
Pony watched him for a moment. "You gonna kill 'em?"  
  
He looked back at her abruptly, his expression slightly stunned. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Kill 'em," she said simply. "Whenever someone crossed Eli Joe, he always made sure they got killed. Thought maybe that was what you were thinkin' on."  
  
He continued to look at her for a few moments, and she could not tell what he was thinking.   
  
Finally he shook his head and faced forward. "My anger may be kindled toward them, my dear, but it has not flared quite as high as that."  
  
"Well, why not?" Pony demanded, amazed. Every time any of her comrades had been crossed, they killed because of it. "They done you wrong, didn't they? Why don't you want t'get even?"  
  
Ezra seemed to think hard on this answer, and when he finally spoke his voice was almost too low to hear over the pounding of the horses' hooves.  
  
"Because these men were once my friends," he said evenly, " and though they are far from flawless, I do not believe their sins to be mortal ones."  
  
Pony felt herself getting a headache. "But they crossed you. Don't that mean you ain't got t'care about 'em no more?"  
  
There was a pause before Ezra said, "That, my dear, is what I am trying to decide."  
  
"Pony!"  
  
She looked up to see Hanley waving at her.  
  
"Looks like it's time t'rustle us up some lunch," she said, pulling out her gun and checking the chamber. "Maybe some food in your stomach'll make all that thinkin' easier t'do."  
  
She gave him a tight smile and rode off to find something for them to eat, grateful to be able to drop the conversation. She had understood none of it, and the talk seemed painful for Ezra. When people hurt you, you hurt them back – it was as simple as that, or so she'd always thought. When Ezra felt like talking again, she'd have to ask him what it was about these so–called friends of his that made them so hard to give up.  
  
Maybe then she'd know why she felt so jealous of him.  
  
  
  
Chris and Vin walked with purposeful strides towards the rear of the area where their party had camped for lunch. Vin carried a hard roll and a pewter plate of chili, as well as a canteen; Chris bore a similar ration, plus one extra. The grim expressions of determination worn on their dusty faces went unnoticed by the man they were seeking out; Yates only sneered at them from the spot where he sat, handcuffed hands dangling lazily on his knees as he leaned casually against the wagon wheel.  
  
"Was wonderin' if you was gonna let me starve this time," the prisoner groused.  
  
An icy smile crept across Chris's face as he tossed the roll to Yates and dumped the second canteen on the ground beside him. "You ain't gettin' off that easy, Yates."  
  
Yates narrowed his beady eyes as Chris handed him the plate of food. "You boys figurin' on roughin' me up, huh? Reckoned that was your style. I know about the judge in Tascosa, he ain't the type that takes to renegade lawmen beatin' up their prisoners." He chuckled as he shoved a forkful of food into his mouth. "'Sides, it won't do ya a lick o' good. I know what I heard an' didn't hear, an' Tanner here's as guilty as sin."  
  
Chris and Vin exchanged serious looks, and they both crouched in front of Yates, Vin rubbing his chin with one hand. "Now, y'see, Yates, Chris an' me was talkin' 'bout what t'do with you. It ain't no use pretendin' you didn't hear Eli Joe confess to them killins, 'cause we both know you did. You was standin' right there."  
  
The only reply was a sullen glare and silence as Yates wolfed down his food.  
  
Chris sighed. "Told you, Vin. Looks like y'got no choice."  
  
Vin sighed as well and took off his hat. "Yep. Was really hopin' it wouldn't come t'this," he said in a sad tone laced with regret.  
  
Yates looked up, uncertainty in his eyes. "What, you gonna whup me? That figures. Go ahead, you'll just get me in good with the judge, an' you'll both wind up hanged."  
  
A somewhat eerie smile slid across Vin's face as he shucked off his leather jacket. "Oh, I ain't gonna whup you. Lord, when I'm through with you you'll wish it was just a whuppin'."  
  
"Oh?" Yates was starting to look worried, his food now totally ignored. "Well – well, you just mind yourself. That judge sees even one mark on me, you're both dead."  
  
Vin was now rolling up his sleeves in a very lazy manner, appearing to enjoy the preparations immensely. "You ever been with the Comanche, Yates? Or the Sioux, or the Cheyenne?"  
  
"Redskins?" Yates blurted. "Hell no, they give me the creeps."  
  
"Figures," Vin nodded, finishing his right sleeve and unbuttoning his left. "Well, I sure do. Spent lots of time with 'em, in fact. They got some very interestin' notions on how t'get information from a man." He smiled again, his blue eyes shining.  
  
Yates gulped and pressed up against the back of the wagon wheel, no longer hiding his fear. "I heard of the things those savages do – you think the judge'll put up with me comin' in all burned and sliced up?"  
  
Vin slowly rolled up his left sleeve, the smile still on his face. "You only heard the half of it, Yates. There's things they do no white man outside their circle ever knows about. The really *awful* stuff. An' none of it leaves the slightest mark."  
  
Yates's eyes bulged from his head.  
  
"See," Vin continued in a soft, lethal tone as he leaned forward, "they got ways to cause the most horrible pain that don't leave no trace at all. If I wanted to, I could dislocate every joint on your body just by twistin' the right places. Or make your head hurt so bad you'll be screamin' to die, just by pressin' a couple spots. They taught me ways t'make you think every bone in your body's broke. All without a scratch."  
  
Yates stared at him, a slight trembling seizing his body. "I don't believe you," he finally sputtered. "You're makin' all this up."  
  
Vin grinned and cracked his knuckles. "I was really hopin' you'd say that."  
  
Yates let out a yelp and looked at Chris, who had not moved since Vin began talking. "You gonna let him do this to me?"  
  
Chris shrugged. "Y'had your chance, Yates." Chris stood and looked at Vin. "Just make sure he stays sane for the trial."  
  
"Cant make no promises," Vin said as he inched towards Yates. "Last man I did this too went plumb crazy from the pain in five minutes." He reached for Yates' elbow.  
  
"Wait!" the prisoner shrieked.  
  
Vin stopped, and he and Chris looked at him keenly.  
  
"You thinkin' on changin' your mind?" Vin asked in a sharp tone.  
  
Yates swallowed, sweat standing out on his brow. "May – maybe."  
  
Chris stepped before him, his green eyes studying the man closely. "You gonna tell that Judge that Eli Joe killed that man, not Vin?"  
  
Yates looked at them both with wide eyes for a few moments, his mind's turmoil evident in his face.  
  
"Guess not," Vin said, and reached for him again.  
  
"All right, dammit!" Yates hollered, shrinking away. "Just get away from me!"  
  
Vin leaned forward, his expression hard. "All right *what*?"  
  
Yates gritted his teeth and looked away, obviously angry at himself. "I'll – cooperate."  
  
There was a pause, then Vin picked up his hat and jacket and stood.  
  
"I was kinda hopin' you'd hold out longer'n that, an' let me have a little fun," Vin said as he pulled his hat on over his long golden–brown curls.   
  
Chris slapped Vin on the back. "Well, there's always the *next* prisoner. Enjoy your lunch, Yates."  
  
With that, the two men turned and walked away.  
  
After they'd gone out of Yates' earshot, Chris looked at Vin. "Don't take much t'scare a coward, does it?"  
  
Vin shook his head. "Lucky for us. Hope he's scared enough t'keep his word."  
  
"Well, you were pretty convincing," Chris replied.  
  
"Yep." Vin pulled on his coat as he shook his head with a quiet smile. "Almost believed it myself!"  
  
  
  
Yates watched his tormenters go with hate – filled eyes. The fear had fled, replaced by anger, at himself for giving in and at them for their stubborn refusal to stop badgering him. It was easy to promise Larabee whatever he wanted now, because he knew he'd be free soon, and his words would count for nothing.  
  
Just wait, Larabee, Yates thought as he took a drink from the canteen they'd left. They're coming to free me, and when they do, it'll be you who'll be screaming to die. You and your whole damn gang.  
  
  
  
The rest of the day passed quickly for Hanley's gang as they continued to shadow Larabee's group, careful to avoid any patrols as they prepared for their upcoming attack. Dusk soon fell, and as the outlaws made camp in the rocky caves, they each readied their weapons and eagerly planned the next day's ambush. Ezra was sent out to patrol as planned, and he soon found himself riding the twilight–hued plains, alone with his still–confused thoughts.  
  
The sun was beginning to set, and Ezra stared at the early evening sky, its canvas awash in hues of purple and pink and gold. The sight was awesomely beautiful, but to Ezra it only held the awful promise of the day which would soon follow. Tomorrow Chris and the others would be slaughtered. Time was running out.  
  
He guided Chaucer over the rough grasses and sharp rocks, but paid little heed to where he was going. A strange heaviness overwhelmed him as he contemplated what he wanted to do, and what he knew he should do, and how little time there was to choose between them.  
  
Anger still lay burning in his heart, although the pain had softened some. Maybe it was the passage of time, maybe it was the snippets of regretful speech he'd heard from JD and Josiah, or maybe it was something he couldn't find a reason for at all. But it was still there, and Ezra knew that there would be neither full trust or forgiveness on his part towards them for a long time. He had held his dreams too dear to endure their destruction so casually.  
  
Doubts had begun to creep into his resolution, however. Perhaps he could have admitted to the others that he needed help, as JD suggested. They may have simply not known how desperate his situation was. True, he had never appealed to anyone for assistance before, but then he had never had anyone to appeal to. They may have just assumed he didn't want their help.   
  
He looked around him at the desert, still and quiet in the gathering night. It reminded him of another desert ride he'd taken long ago, from the Seminole village; he had deserted the others to search for gold, but returned when they were in danger. Chris had overlooked his mistake and given him a second chance then.  
  
Should he give them a second chance in return?  
  
Ezra scanned the horizon, then looked over his shoulder. He was alone out here; Hanley and the others were holed up on the caves, hiding from any patrols that might be around. He could find Chris and the others and warn them, and return without detection. It would not be difficult, they had been keeping a close eye on them all day.  
  
He sat quietly as he contemplated this action. How was he going to explain his presence here? Could he really face them again, after the violent emotions he'd been subjected to caused by their actions? This was not going to be easy. But would standing by and allowing them to be killed be any easier?  
  
As Ezra stared out at the setting sun, a powerful tide of feeling swept over him. For a brief moment he was seized by the notion that saving them was as crucial to his own life as it was to theirs. A certainty formed in his baffled mind, that their journey together was not yet done, and to allow it to end now would be a sin far greater than any committed by them or himself. It seemed to him to be the voice of fate.  
  
It went away as quickly as it had come, and Ezra almost reeled as he recovered from the strength of it. He glanced back once more at the rocks in which Hanley and the others were hiding, then turned his face to the hills before him, his mind set. Chris and the others had to be warned. He could sort out the rest later.  
  
Besides, he told himself, how would he be able to flaunt his future success in their faces if they all died tomorrow?  
  
With resolution he spurred Chaucer into a trot and rode out to find Chris's camp.  
  
  
  
  



	4. Default Chapter Title

Pony sat by the mouth of the cave, idly cleaning her gun and watching the sun set with distant eyes. Behind her, the rest of the gang was discussing the upcoming fight with bloodthirsty eagerness. Normally she was just as excited as they were about the prospect of some action, but this time she found little joy in her work.  
  
"Hey, Pony!"  
  
She turned to see Trent sauntering towards her, holding his newly cleaned Remington in one hand and his battered top hat in the other.  
  
"You been mopin' out here since we arrived, gal," Trent griped as he leaned against the wall next to her, his hands fiddling with his gun. "You losin' your taste for fightin'?"  
  
"Hell, no," was the quick reply, as she hastily resumed her efforts. "Just don't feel like howlin' with you mangy dogs tonight, is all."  
  
"Oh, we're gonna do more than howl," Trent said proudly, holding up his gun and smiling as he examined it. "Larabee an' his crew won't know what hit 'em. You better be pretty fast tomorrow, else you won't get the best pickins after we put 'em all in the ground."  
  
She shot him a sour look. "Ain't I always the fastest one here?"  
  
Trent studied her for a moment, then laughed as he put on his hat. "Hell, I guess so. Seem a mite off your feed tonight, though."  
  
Pony shrugged and dropped her gaze to her work. "Just...thinkin', that's all."  
  
"Huh." Trent grunted, twirling his gun casually. "Yeah, I used t'think, too. But then I found that shootin's a lot more fun. What the hell is there t'think about?"  
  
Pony sighed and looked up at him, her large brown eyes confused. "Trent, you ever think about not killin' an' robbin' no more?"  
  
Trent stared at her, then began to chuckle. "What the devil you talkin' about, gal?"  
  
She hesitated, then turned away. "I – I dunno. Just feel like I might be gettin'...sorta tried of livin' this way. That's all."  
  
Trent nodded, his expression serious. "Uh – huh, well, you better drop that feelin' pretty quick. Only way out of here for you or any of us is a pine box. You know that."  
  
Pony gave a quick sigh as she looked out over the desert, now draped in a blue–purple glow as the night came on. "Yeah, you're – you're right. I – "  
  
She stopped suddenly, her gaze riveted on the horizon. With one swift, graceful motion she rose, the gun now gripped firmly in her hand.  
  
"What is it?" Trent asked, studying the horizon over her shoulder.  
  
Ignoring his question, Pony turned and yelled to the group inside the cave, "There's a rider comin' this way!"  
  
The air snapped with tension as Hanley and the others gathered behind her, all armed and ready for battle. The muffled sound of approaching hoofbeats filled the air, and in the twilight gloom a dark shape could be seen riding towards them.  
  
"Shit!" Lew said.  
  
"Shut up!" hissed Hanley. "Everyone get back inside! Trent – you get behind a rock an' let us know when they've gone. It might be one of Larabee's scouts."  
  
As the others dashed deeper into the cave, Trent palmed his gun and clambered onto the rocks, ducking down as the rider drew closer. The campfire was doused with dirt, and the small group waited in darkness, watching Trent's black form, now silhouetted against the violet evening sky.  
  
The hoofbeats drew closer, until they could be heard passing the mesa housing the cave. All held their breath, guns at the ready; but none of them were prepared for what Trent said next.  
  
"Hey," he shouted, "it's Gray!"  
  
The gang as a whole stood and looked at him in confusion.  
  
"Gray?!" Hanley spat, pushing towards the front of the hideout. "What the hell!"  
  
As they spilled out onto the desert floor, they could see the rider now doubling back in answer to Trent's shouts. In the dying light they could see it was indeed Gray, dusty and exhausted but still recognizable.  
  
"Thought I wasn't never gonna find you all," Gray was saying as he reined in and dismounted with a plop. The campfire inside the cave was rekindled, its glow filtering out onto the desert.  
  
"Gray!" Hanley barked, enraged as he approached the older man. "What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be keepin' an eye on the law in Four Corners!"  
  
Gray grinned as he shook his head. "I done killed the law back there, Hanley. He won't be comin' after us."  
  
Hanley stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes wide with rage. "Now why in the name of God did you do that?" he finally bellowed. "Don't you know they'll come after you for killin' a lawman?"  
  
"Ain't nobody after me," Gray insisted as he knocked the dust from his clothes. "An' that lawman deserved what he got. Now Larabee won't have nobody t'help 'im, an' you got one more gun t'wipe 'im out for good."  
  
Hanley glared at him for a moment, then gave an angry sigh. "All right. But next time, dammit, don't go shootin' down the law."  
  
Gray scowled at him, the took a few steps towards the cave. He stopped when Lew appeared, hands on his gunbelt.  
  
"Hired some guns, huh?" Gray grunted, scratching the dust out of his hair.  
  
"What? Oh yeah, that's Lew," Hanley said casually as he waved at the mercenary. "We got another too, Standish, he's out keepin' watch for Larabee's men."  
  
They all moved into the cave – all, that is, except for Gray, who stood frozen in place, his eyes wide. Once this was noticed, the last few of the group turned and looked at him.  
  
"Comin', Gray?" Hanley asked in an irritated tone.  
  
"Standish?" Gray asked.  
  
"Yeah, so?" was Hanley's angry reply.  
  
"EZRA Standish?"  
  
Hanley growled in exasperation. "You turn idiot or something, Gray? Yes, Ezra Standish, now get your ass in here."  
  
Gray still hesitated. "He a Southern boy, about so high, with a red coat an' a gold tooth?"  
  
They all turned to look at him now in surprise.  
  
"Yeah, you guys follow Bobby Lee together or somethin'?" Trent asked with a grin.  
  
Gray sputtered for a moment, his thin fists pounding the air in frustration. "Gol darn it all, ya idiots – he's law!"  
  
Instantly the entire group was seized by a sense of shock, and they crowded back towards Gray, shocked questions on their lips – all except for Pony, who stood wide–eyed and speechless.  
  
"Fella at the bar back in town told me," Gray spat, his voice becoming thin with agitation, "one of Larabee's men was a Southerner with a gold tooth an' a red coat, name of Ezra Standish. I asked around town t'see if any more of Larabee's men was there, an' that's one name I heard a lot. It's sorta odd so I remembered it. He's one of Larabee's men, boss!"  
  
Hanley stood still, his entire body trembling with rage. Finally he exploded with a single bellowed word, its furious tone encompassing the wrath of a powerful man realizing the extent of his betrayal.  
  
"WHAT!?"  
  
  
  
The western horizon was still tinged with the pink remnants of daylight as Nathan went through his supplies by the flickering light of a lantern. Behind him, the rest of the group was enjoying dinner around the small campfire, but the healer was too worried – about many things – to feel much like eating.   
  
He sighed to himself as he went over the contents of his tattered canvas bag. His resources only went so far, and a confrontation would likely exhaust what supplies of bandages and medicines he had on hand. He loathed the thought that he might not be able to save all of them should trouble break out, and pushed the frightening idea as far away from his mind as it would go.  
  
The problem was, as soon as that disturbing idea was set aside, another took its place. The fight he'd had with Ezra right before they left still bothered him, although he wasn't quite sure why. He'd done all he could to make things right with the headstrong gambler – it wasn't his fault Ezra was too stubborn to sit still and listen to an apology.   
  
Nathan's conscience prodded him painfully; well, maybe he had needled Ezra a bit too much about his gambling ways, and it was a mistake to bring up the demise of his saloon when the pain from it was still so fresh for Ezra. But, Nathan thought to himself, it had been Ezra who had walked out, Ezra who had refused to listen to any more talk. If he truly did not want to discuss it, that was fine with Nathan. He would simply have to accept the fact that perhaps they really never would get along.  
  
For one brief moment, a flash of sorrow stabbed at Nathan's heart. The shame he felt over his employment under Maude still stung him, and there seemed to be an odd connection between winning Ezra's forgiveness and being able to forgive himself. But Ezra had not seemed to be in a forgiving mood. So, fine, Nathan assured himself as he picked through his supplies. He was pretty sure he could find a way to live without begging any more favors from Ezra Standish.  
  
"Hey, Nathan?"  
  
Nathan looked up to see Vin approaching him, the tracker's slim form silhouetted against the fire's glow.  
  
"Reckon y'could look me over?" Vin continued. "I want t'be ready if any fuss breaks out."  
  
Nathan hastily put his thoughts behind him as he nodded, relieved at the distraction. "Sure, Vin, c'mon over. I was just finishin' up here anyway."  
  
The examination was brief, and Nathan nodded as he finished retying the last of Vin's bandages.  
  
"You're healin' right good, Vin," Nathan said as he tied off the last knot. "Reckon that ridin' you did today didn't hurt you none."  
  
"Good," Vin rasped as he sat up and shrugged his shirt back on. "Don't think I could take bouncin' around in that wagon no more."  
  
Nathan chuckled as he packed up his tattered medical bag. "Won't be no more of that if'n you stay out of trouble."  
  
His friend shook his head as he began to rebutton his shirt. "Trouble an' me seem t'be ridin' the same horse these days."  
  
Nathan cast a serious glance at his friend. "Maybe that'll stop once you're a free man," he said as he tied his bag closed.  
  
"Sure hope so," Vin replied, staring towards the glowing circle where the rest of their comrades were sitting. "If it don't..." his voice trailed off, and he dropped his gaze to where his nimble fingers were working the last of the buttons.  
  
"Hey, don't you go thinkin' like that," Nathan chided, concerned at Vin's anxiety.  
  
Vin sighed and lifted his head again, his blue eyes searching the darkness beyond the reach of the warm pool of light. "Can't help thinkin' on them men that attacked us, Nathan. They're still out there somewhere, an' until we know what they're up to, can't none of us breathe safe."  
  
"Maybe Chris should've had Buck an' Ezra come along," Vin was saying as he put his weathered hat back on. "Sure could use a few more guns."  
  
Nathan shrugged. "Buck had t'look after things back in town, an' Ezra..." He shook his head. "Hell, who KNOWS what he's up to."  
  
"Trouble with his ma in St. Louis, if I remember right," Vin gasped as he stood with Nathan's help. "Prob'ly got in some scrape with the law."  
  
Nathan scowled. "More likely he was just lookin' t'get away an' do some gamblin' 'stead of helpin' us out."  
  
The tracker peered at him, then gave a very small shrug. "Don't rightly know, Nathan," Vin said thoughtfully as they slowly began walking towards the campfire. "He seemed mighty troubled t'me."  
  
"Yeah, well, I spoke to 'im before we left," Nathan said in a voice laced with irritation. "Only thing he seemed troubled 'bout was how much he could blame other folks for his problems."  
  
Vin glanced at him. "Maybe that's just his way of dealin' with it. Some pain's so bad, the only way t'get rid of it is t'give it t'other people."  
  
Nathan winced inside, remembering their last conversation, and his apology which was never delivered. Mingled with that memory was the anger at Ezra's accusations, their truth making them even more unbearable. He shook his head.  
  
"I can tell you one thing, I don't want it," Nathan declared firmly. "Got enough pain of my own already."  
  
Vin nodded. "I know, Nathan," he said softly as they drew closer to the campfire. "But I reckon that's between the two of you, an' when we get back home you can both sort it out among yourselves. If we make it back alive, that is," he added dryly, glancing at the surrounding hills as he spoke.  
  
Nathan's expression flickered with a concern which mirrored Vin's, and he nodded slowly. "Whatever's comin', I s'pose we'll be ready for it. But I don't guess Ezra's got anythin' t'worry about – he's probably holed up in some St. Louis hotel havin' the time of his life."  
  
  
Ezra cursed the dry, sharp prairie grass as he crept forward a few more inches, swearing to himself that once this was all over he would never crawl through another patch of the stuff again.  
  
He sat up and brushed the prickling blades from his sleeve, looking ahead at the small dot of light in the near distance and trying to still the hammering in his chest. It was the fire of Chris's camp – he knew that much – and he'd been trying to decide the best way to approach them without getting shot at. Simply riding up wouldn't do – Chris would be on alert after the earlier attack, and they would likely just shoot him from his horse. A more subtle tactic would be needed.  
  
Dread clutched at him again as he realized that gaining safe access to the camp would not be the most difficult aspect of this task. Coupled with the desperate desire to warn his friends was the difficulty in explaining his sudden appearance in their midst – he was, after all, supposed to be in St. Louis. And how would he adequately explain his knowledge of Hanley's plans anyway? Would they even trust him? Could he bear, once more, to see the shadows of doubt and rejection on their faces?  
  
He sighed and rubbed his face with one elegant hand, feeling a familiar tug at his heart which said, Just forget this, ride off, why help them when they refused to help you? Hanley will be too busy to follow you now, and you won't have to face the pain.   
  
Ezra had no answer to this; he simply knew it was impossible, as it had been impossible to abandon them at the Seminole village. This would be damned difficult and awkward, facing them again when there was still such hurt burning in him, but it had to be done. He could not stand by and allow them to be slaughtered.  
  
He looked one last time at the tiny star–like glow, and with new resolve determined to ride on ahead, slowly, so as not to alarm them. He rose to mount his horse, and was halfway to his feet before his instincts suddenly caught fire. He was being watched.  
  
His hand went for his gun and he turned, instantly alert. He only saw a blur, a quick impression of a tall figure in brown with long blonde hair. Fear flashed through him as he realized it was Dark Sun, but he only had an instant to experience it. Then something hard crashed across his head and he plummeted towards the ground. As he fell he caught one more glimpse of the small, promising light in the distance before its beckoning glow disappeared in a sudden descent of painful darkness.  
  
  
  
Buck cursed to himself as he spurred his horse relentlessly on in the moonlit darkness. There seemed little chance now he'd find the others in time.  
  
He had been riding like a madman, changing horses at every available small town on the way, but now he could not shake the feeling that his efforts would be in vain. A thrown shoe had delayed him, and his wounded arm was proving to be an agonizing distraction. Several times he had found himself drifting off through pain and fatigue, and realized that he had lost the trail. It had taken time to find it again, time Chris and the others didn't have.  
  
But he was on the right track now, he knew it, but was he too late? There was nowhere now to find fresh horses or supplies, only the broad expanse of the empty desert beneath a pitiless moon. And the burning in his gut which told him that he was going to find and warn his friends, or commit himself to the pursuit and destruction of their murderers.  
  
He rode on.  
  
  
"All right, get him up."  
  
Ezra barely heard these words as he tried to struggle back from the thick fog he'd been trapped in. At first all he wanted to do was open his eyes, get his bearings, find out what the hell was going on. Then as more memory broke through the thickness in his brain, he realized he was probably better off unconscious. But it was too late for that now.  
  
Thoughts tumbled through his mind, disorganized and urgent. Chris, he had to warn Chris and the others – they were in danger, they were going to be killed. He tried to move, and found he couldn't. Then he recalled what had happened, and his heart sank; he was in danger now, too. Damn.  
  
He was lying on a stone floor; that much he could tell, and it didn't take long for him to notice that his hands had been tied very securely behind him. They had stripped him of his guns and his red jacket, and most likely all the money he had hidden in his boot. His ribs and arms were sore; he had most likely been dumped here none too gently. He stirred a little, licking his dry lips and trying to gather his wits together, when someone grabbed his collar roughly, hauled him up and slapped him fiercely across the face.  
  
The force and sharpness of the blow startled him into full awareness, and he opened his eyes with a start. His gaze met the furious eyes of Trent, who was holding him, the young man's mouth bent into a chilling smile. Ezra's eyes quickly swept the scene; they were in the cave, now lit only by the campfire. He was at the center, and around him on all sides sat the members of Hanley's gang, including some old man in a tattered gray Confederate coat whom Ezra had never seen before. Pony was not there. They were all staring at him with violent hatred, but the only one who moved was Hanley, whose huge form now stood before him, looking particularly murderous.  
  
Oh *hell*, Ezra thought. He licked his lips again and said, in as indignant a tone as he could muster, "What is the meaning of this?"  
  
"Drop 'im, Trent," Hanley commanded. Trent grinned at Ezra and released him. Ezra dropped back to the hard floor, suppressing a moan as his shoulder slammed onto the unforgiving rock.  
  
"Well, we've run into a little problem, Standish," Hanley said in a casual tone as he crossed his arms and stepped over to where Ezra was sprawled. He looked over at the older man. "How about it, Gray?"  
  
The old man nodded vigorously. "That's him all right, Hanley, jus' like that fella said."  
  
"Uh – huh." Hanley nodded, then looked back at Ezra, and his manner was quite matter–of–fact and very deadly. "Gray here tells me you're one of Larabee's dogs."  
  
Ezra was not very surprised at this – it had seemed pretty obvious when he awoke – and he slid on an air of utter insult. "Sir," he replied, trying to sit up, "I must protest this heinous accusation. Your associate here is clearly mistaken."  
  
Hanley paused and gave Ezra a cold smile before viciously driving his boot into the gambler's stomach. Ezra tried not to groan at the explosion of pain, but it was impossible to completely suppress the agonized sound.  
  
"Shut up!" Hanley barked as Ezra gasped for air. "I didn't ask you if it was true, did I?"  
  
Ezra's breathing calmed a bit and he looked up at Hanley, his mind furiously working on how to get out of this.  
  
Hanley crouched down in front of Ezra's supine form and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him a few inches closer. "See, Standish," he continued in a calm, icy voice, "I know Gray ain't the smartest gun I've ever worked with, but I trust him a hell of a lot more than I trust you at this point. You being one of Larabee's men explains a whole lot of things, like your clumsiness at the stakeout the other day." His grip tightened and he drew Ezra closer. "That wasn't an accident, was it? You were trying to *warn* them, you traitorous son of a bitch."  
  
Ezra shook his head slightly. "This is an out – "  
  
Hanley's fist closed even tighter, and he stood, hauling Ezra almost to his feet. Ezra choked, his throat nearly closed off in the vise–like fury of the huge man's grip. Hanley's enraged countenance was now a mere few inches from Ezra's, and the expression he saw there was brimming with wrathful suspicion.  
  
"I don't want to hear one more damn word out of you, Standish," Hanley said in a lethal whisper. "It would be better for you to save your breath. You won't have it for too much longer."  
  
He threw Ezra back to the floor, not even looking to see where he landed. Ezra collapsed on his side, and lay still for a moment while the room spun around him. For one terrifying second he couldn't breathe; then everything slowly, painfully righted itself. Which was not, he realized, exactly an improvement in his situation.  
  
"Now Gray may very well be mistaken," Hanley was saying as he walked back and forth in front of Ezra, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolmaster explaining a complicated problem to a child. "Maybe you aren't the Ezra Standish who's got a gold tooth and a red coat and takes blood money from Chris Larabee. But I can't afford to take that chance, you understand. As you've seen, I don't have a lot of patience for men who might cross me."  
  
Ezra thought of the hired gun who'd tried to leave, and who had died from a bullet in his back, courtesy of Hanley. He fought to control his fear, but things were not getting any brighter. But there had to be a way out of this –   
  
"Now," Hanley said, coming back to stand in front of Ezra, "there's still the matter of what to do with you. Trent, of course, had a few ideas, since you did almost get him killed."  
  
Ezra glanced at Trent; the young man was staring at him and not smiling.  
  
"I must say, I had some very creative suggestions," Hanley smiled. "We're pretty experienced in dealing with those we don't like. And right now, we don't like you."  
  
He squatted down in front of Ezra, and the gambler felt his gut tighten at the realization of how much Hanley was enjoying all of this. "Now, we could of course just shoot you. But we have to save our bullets for your friends, don't we? Those Goddamned gutter–crawling horse shit friends you didn't get a chance to warn this time. Why, Gray even helped us out by killing one of them already."  
  
Ezra's blood turned to ice; my Lord, he thought, staring at the smugly grinning old man. Oh, Hell. Who...  
  
Gray looked overjoyed at Ezra's shocked reaction. "Yup," he nodded, pulling out his gun, "shot 'im with this gun right here. Saw 'im die myself. Wasn't nothin' you could do about that, was there? Gunned 'im down right there in th' boardin' house. Ha!"  
  
The boarding house – it must have been back at the town. But the only one left in town was...  
  
Buck. Oh Lord. Sorrow swelled through Ezra's chest, flooding him with an icy ache.  
  
Hanley's laughter pierced his agony. "Heheh – looks a mite broke up, don't he, Gray?"  
  
Gray's response was a contemptuous chuckle.  
  
"Well, don't you worry, Standish," Hanley said with a smile as he stood, "you won't have long t'grieve for your worthless dog of a friend. You're all going to be in Hell by tomorrow night. But I've decided to let you have a little taste of what's waiting for you in eternity."  
  
He gave Ezra one last look of pure anger, then without turning said, "Dark Sun?"  
  
Ezra watched as the young man in buckskin with long blonde hair and haunted eyes came forward, face impassive as always. He had recovered fully from his injuries, and was studying Ezra in a perfectly calm manner, the wild light behind his blue eyes eerie with anticipation.  
  
"Before this night is over, Standish," Hanley went on, still gazing at him with complete hatred, "I want you to be sorry you ever tried to help those God– damned friends of yours. I want you to know that you couldn't beat us, and you never will. We might just be scum to you, but scum always rises to the top." He grabbed Ezra by the hair, pulling his head up slightly and giving him a smug grin. "Doesn't it?"   
  
Ezra peered back at him as he quietly gasped for breath. "I believe your associate Eli Joe had the same belief."  
  
The other man grunted. "Eli Joe had his chance, now I have mine. Your chances, on the other hand, have run out."  
  
Hanley turned a little to Dark Sun. "He's all yours," he announced, and strode out of the cave. The others rose and followed.  
  
"I want t'stay an' watch this," Lew, the hired gun, was whining. Ain't never seen Injun torture before.  
  
"You don't wanna see Dark Sun work," was the nervous reply of Stan, the escaped convict. "Believe me."  
  
And they were gone.  
  
Ezra's heart was racing as he tried to twist out of the ropes; he could feel the rough hemp tearing his skin but they were too tight for him to budge. He had to find a way out of here and warn his comrades. The anger he had felt towards them was gone for the moment, replaced only with a vital, all – consuming urgency: he could not fail them, there was no one else to help. There had to be a way.  
  
Dark Sun simply stood there, staring at Ezra, as still as a statue, his blue eyes wide and wild in the flickering firelight. Ezra shuddered; he'd seen eyes like that in the South, after the War, in the faces of people who had seen such horrors that they went mad. He inched away a little instinctively before bumping into the unyielding rock wall, his concern for Chris and the others now replaced by a paralyzing terror for himself.  
  
Dark Sun walked towards him and slowly drew out his knife.  
  
"The spirits have told me," he said in a soft, even voice, "that I must begin now."  
  
  
  
Josiah had always loved the early hours of the morning, when the darkness had been dispelled but the sun had not yet shown its face over the eastern horizon. But now, as he trotted his horse over the dry, cool desert, keeping a lookout for trouble, he eyed the gray dawn sky and felt only trouble in his heart.  
  
Vin had recovered; that was certainly something to be thankful for, but the danger was far from over, and Josiah had been visited by disturbing dreams which hinted at worse tribulations to come. He had said nothing to the others, preferring to contemplate the message privately, and the long dawn patrol had given him the perfect opportunity to do so. But he had found no answers.  
  
He drew back and sighed as he surveyed the sunrise, the sky just beginning to turn from dull gray to light pink and blue. Lord, he thought, I s'pose I ought t'thank you for this day, an' for allowin' us all t'see it from the land of the living. If you could just see your way clear t'lettin' our luck continue, I know I for one would be mighty grateful.  
  
He guided Prophet down a shallow, rocky hill. Lord, he continued, I know I ain't exactly in the best position to be askin' no favors of you, but I don't reckon it'll take up too much of your infinite time t'hear what I got t'say. We're mighty grateful you saw fit t'spare our brother Vin's life, Lord. He's a good man – got his faults like all of us but he's tryin' t'make things right. Sure would appreciate it, Lord, if you could help him on his way an' give him some peace of mind at last.  
  
Then there's Chris, Josiah thought as he eased prophet over a rather rough patch of desert grass. Lord, he ain't talkin', but I can tell somethin's eatin' at his soul. Thought he was about t'bust when Vin was hurt. There's a fire behind him, Lord, an' I can't tell what it is but it's drivin' him somethin' fierce. If Vin don't make it through all this, I don't think Chris will either. Ease the fire in his soul, Lord, an' maybe they'll both live t'go back home as free men. I'd sure be obliged to you for that.  
  
And JD, now, there's a young man with a heavy heart, Josiah mused as he rode along. The sky was brightening now, the glow to the east announcing the approach of dawn. Lord, you an' I both know JD's got just about the best heart in the Territory, an' right now that heart needs some lookin' after. He hasn't learned yet how to ignore the pain of other people, an' with your help maybe he won't ever learn. Give him the strength to face his mistakes an' make 'em right, Lord, while he still cares enough to want to.  
  
Now Nathan – he seems to be doin' all right, Lord, but I know he's worried about what might happen. He never thinks he's done enough, even when he's given more than most men would even think of. I sure hope he won't have anything else to worry about on this trip, Lord, but if he does, I'm askin' that you give him the ability to see it through, an' not to be too hard on himself for what he can't fix.  
  
Reckon JD an' Nathan are still riled about Ezra, too, Josiah mused. I am too. Still kickin' myself for not havin' the guts to talk to him before he left town. An' I still feel like a blind fool for not seein' the pain Ezra was goin' through. Damn hard t'see, with Ezra, sometimes, but that's no excuse. I believe you brought us together to be each other's keepers, Lord, an' now that I've caused my brother pain I got to set it right. Lord, give me the wisdom to know how to do that, an' give Ezra the patience to hear me. It would do both our hearts a world of good.  
  
Josiah smiled to himself a little as he guided his mount along a dry creek bed. For myself, Lord, he thought, I'd just ask that you just point me the way I'm s'posed to go and give me the strength to get there. You've brought me among these men for a purpose, an' I'm trustin' that one of these days you'll let me – let all of us – in on what that might be. We know I'm not the best man to trust their souls too, Lord – my own's so heavy it's all I can do to hold that together, let alone six more. It's a burden I know they have, too. Maybe that's why we're all here, Lord. So we can make the weight a little easier to bear by bearing it together.  
  
Josiah sighed and looked again at the sky; the sun had begun to peep over the horizon, its fiery light slowly spreading over the sleeping landscape. It would be time to move soon. Reluctantly he turned from his contemplations and spurred Prophet back towards the camp, hoping that his prayers would be heard.  
  
Had Josiah looked down as he rode through the rough prairie grass, he would have seen a golden object blinking back at him. If he had studied it, he would have recognized it as a gold – plated cufflink, identical to the kind Ezra wore, and in fact engraved with the initials EPS.  
  
But Josiah's mind was full of the day's occupations. He rode ahead, oblivious to the small gleaming object hidden in the grass, and heedless of its fate as it was swallowed up and obscured by the choking weeds which surrounded it.  
  
  
  
Pony stared at the new dawn with exhausted eyes and thought, *Damn*.  
  
She sniffled and wiped her nose on her hand, looking back to make sure no one was watching her as she sat close by the cave. But they were still asleep, curled up among the rocks some distance away, getting plenty of rest for the day's battle. Today they would kill Larabee and the rest, get their revenge, and ride for Mexico free and happy.  
  
Pony felt anything but free and happy.  
  
She sighed, scowled and kicked herself. Dammit, she thought, stop it, stop caring. You're making a fool of yourself, he's just a damned liar like all of 'em. It's your own fault for trustin' him and thinkin' he meant what he was sayin' about honor and there bein' good folks in the world. This just proved there really weren't, didn't it? You couldn't even trust the ones who swore up an' down about it.  
  
She bit her lip as the sad anger swelled in her, disgusted at herself. She'd been telling herself such things all night, but they hadn't helped. She still felt sorry for the poor guy, even if he was a lawman and a liar. When he'd talked to her, he seemed so sure about it, and Pony could usually tell when she was being lied to. It had happened often enough. But maybe he was just real good at it...  
  
She glanced again at the cave and shivered. How could the others sleep, knowing what was going on in there? She'd run away, at first, unable to bear being close. It was quite handy to take patrol duty and ride off, though it felt as if no distance was far enough. But she had to come back, and she'd dreaded it, because she didn't really want to hear him scream. Funny thing was, even after she came back, she never heard him scream. Not once.  
  
She saw movement at the mouth of the cave, and ducked down. Dark Sun's thin form emerged, appearing as calm as if he'd just come out of a night of pure, unbroken rest. That light was still shining in his eyes, however; Pony could see it even from a distance. That restless, haunted light which could never cause enough pain and suffering to quench it. With casual strides he walked from the cave, and Pony knew he was going to seek guidance from the spirits who spoke only to him, as he did every morning at sunrise. He would be gone for a little while, but not for long.  
  
She silently stepped over the rocks towards the cave, steadying the swinging canteen she carried. At the mouth of the cave, she hesitated, suddenly afraid. She didn't want to see Ezra like this. But she had to see him, to talk to him, before it was too late. And it would be too late very soon.  
  
Pony crouched down and entered the mouth of the cave; it was quite shallow, and a few more steps took her into the heart of the den. The fire was still burning, very low now, and its light was so feeble that it took her a few moments to see in the half–darkness. After a few moments she found what she was looking for, and hurried towards it, her heart rising in her throat. She had seen Dark Sun's work before.  
  
He was lying on his side, motionless, and Pony thought at first that he was probably dead. Even in the dim, flickering light she could see the black–red stains soaking his tattered clothing; it seemed to be everywhere. She knew by watching that Dark Sun knew exactly how and where to cut to cause the most pain and bleeding, but not death – at least not too quickly. As she drew closer she saw a slight movement stir the bloodied form, and realized that Ezra wasn't dead just yet. A strange sorrow accompanied this thought; it only meant that his suffering would continue.  
  
She hurriedly knelt by his side. The light was dim, but she didn't need it to know how brutally Ezra had been treated. His body was covered with deep, painful cuts executed with the precision and skill of a practiced hand. Small trails of blood trickled down his face from hidden cuts on his scalp. There were dark bruises on the temples, the arms, the chest – anywhere where pressure would bring the greatest amount of agony. Such sights had never disturbed her before, but now they turned her stomach. With one quick glance back at the mouth of the cave, she reached out and gently touched his shoulder.  
  
Ezra gasped and jerked a bit, uttering a strange choking noise. His arms strained against the bonds which still pinned his hands behind his back, but the weak effort lasted only a moment. He gulped for air as his eyes convulsed open, staring at Pony in a brief burst of panic as he struggled out of one nightmare into another.   
  
She jumped in sympathy at his reaction. "Hey, don't fret, it's only me," she said, trying to ease the half–conscious fear in his eyes. She unscrewed the canteen top and held the mouth to his lips, tilting it back. "Here, I figured you'd need this. It's got somethin' in it for the pain."  
  
Ezra needed no further urging; he quickly drained the container, as Pony knew he would. Men who lost blood always wanted lots of water, and she knew he hadn't had any all night.  
  
When the canteen was empty she put it away, watching Ezra with worried eyes. He gasped a few times and licked his lips, but said nothing.  
  
"I thought you was dead there for a minute," she said as she eased him upright and leaned his back against the rock wall, to make him more comfortable.   
  
Ezra shook his head, the sweat on his face glistening in the wan firelight. "I do not believe that is in your comrade's plans," he whispered in a light, panting breath. He opened his eyes a little more, looking around.  
  
Pony sighed. "He went out t'pray to the spirits, like he does every mornin'. He won't be gone long."  
  
Ezra leaned his head back and closed his eyes, apparently in despair at the thought of Dark Sun returning. After a moment the green eyes slid open again, and he looked at her. "Does Hanley know you're in here?"  
  
Pony snorted. "No. An' if he finds out, I'm dead."  
  
Ezra's eyes widened. "I must commend your courage, my dear."  
  
Pony snorted. "Courage, hell! I don't know why I'm even bothering with you." She paused, then continued, her voice becoming edged with confused anger. "It's true, isn't it? You're one of Larabee's men. He an' them men, they're the friends you was tellin' me about, that crossed you."  
  
Ezra said nothing. He only gazed at her with exhausted eyes for a moment, but they were full of enough pain for her to guess the answer.  
  
She let out a quick breath and stared at him, her brown eyes upset and confused. "What, did they plant you back at that saloon so you could follow us? Were you gonna turn us all in, or have us killed?"  
  
His eyes opened wider now, and he struggled to sit up, an intense desire to be understood clear in his face.  
  
"My child," he said softly, "you must believe me when I say I had no intention of infiltrating your group. When you found me I was trying to put as much distance between myself and those men as possible."  
  
She stared at him, then leaned closer, crouching down on her heels. "Good, then maybe this'll work. I was thinkin', if you can give Hanley somethin' that'll help him get those men – some weaknesses, maybe – he might let you go without killin' you."  
  
Ezra gazed at her without saying a word for a moment, then shook his head and whispered, "No."  
  
She cocked her head and frowned. "But you're done with 'em any – "  
  
"NO."  
  
This only increased her puzzlement. She sat back on her heels and shook her head, hopelessly bewildered. "Why the hell not? They ain't nothin' to you no more."  
  
Ezra dropped his gaze to the ground for a moment, then slowly brought his eyes up to meet hers, a small smile on his face.  
  
"I wish I had an answer for you," he said, between gasps for air. ""But...when I thought of leaving them to be killed, something stronger than my anger at them made that idea abhorrent to me. Perhaps I wanted to spare them in the name of whatever once bound us together."  
  
Pony furrowed her brow. "That don't make no sense."  
  
Ezra smiled at her, a remarkably tender expression on his face considering the excruciating amount of pain he had to be in. "I know you don't understand it, my dear. Hell, I don't understand it either. But I cannot betray them and carry their blood on my hands for the rest of my life."  
  
She was open–mouthed with surprise. "Then – you're just gonna sit here an' let yourself be killed? Just t'save their sorry asses? They'll just die anyhow."  
  
Ezra sighed and leaned back against the stone, a great weariness spreading over his body. "Then perhaps all of our sins will be purged."  
  
Pony sat up, her teeth gritted with determined anger. "Not if I can help it. Look, dammit, you're delirious. Here." She pulled out her gun and held it up. "You seem like a decent feller, even if you're full of wild ideas. When Dark Sun comes back he ain't gonna let up on you one bit." One slender finger slid over the trigger. "I – I can stop that, if you want."  
  
Ezra frowned at her. "They'll surely notice if you shoot your comrade, my dear."  
  
She gave him a serious, level look. "Not him, Ezra. You."  
  
His head came up with a snap, and he stared at her dumbfounded.  
  
"You won't feel a thing, I promise," she said quickly, climbing to her knees. "I – I just don't want to see you go through this no more. I'll say you tried to escape, Hanley won't care. It's – "  
  
He found his voice, and it was for the first time strong and decisive. "No. Pony, I cannot allow you to do this."  
  
Pony was skeptical. "You'd rather be tortured to death?"  
  
There was a long moment of silence, during which Ezra seemed to be weighing the question very seriously. Pony glanced towards the entrance to the cave; Dark Sun would be coming back soon. Why the hell wouldn't he let her do this for him?  
  
"it is not a pleasant thought, certainly," Ezra said at last, his voice weak, "but it is more attractive than allowing you to take my life. I have been a coward for most of my life, Pony, and if it is to end this way I would rather face it as I believe my friends would – fighting to the last. It is the only honorable thing to do."  
  
"Honorable!" Pony spat, her gun dropping into her lap. "What the hell good is honor, Ezra? Look at you! Trussed up like a pig on a spit. Dark Sun ain't even started on you, believe me, an' you're here talkin' about honor. Hell of a lot of good it did you."  
  
They sat together without saying a word for a few long minutes. Finally Pony sniffed and wiped one hand across her nose.  
  
"Hell," she said softly, throwing a contrite look at Ezra. "I – just – I don't understand why you're doin' this all, for them. Part of me thinks you're the craziest man I ever met, an' the other part..."  
  
Her voice trailed off. She didn't want to admit that she deeply wanted to believe such things were possible, because those thoughts were soft and weak, and she could never be weak and survive. He had friends, friends he was willing to suffer and die for even though they hurt him – what was that like? It seemed both insane and wonderful. She could remember a time, when she was little, when such love was part of her life –   
  
She sat up quickly, shaking her head. No time for that now. "Look, he'll be back any minute. Please, let me end it all for you, you don't know what he's capable of."  
  
His gaze on her was weak but steady, the green eyes firm. "I can hardly stop you," he admitted, "but it would be against my wishes. And I believe, my dear, that there is enough honor in you to respect those wishes."  
  
She hesitated. He was right, she could do whatever she wanted, he couldn't stop her, but – Honor? In *her*? Nobody had ever said such a thing.  
  
She drew a deep breath and reluctantly holstered her gun. "You're a damn fool," she said.   
  
"There are many who would agree with you, including Larabee and his men," Ezra replied. He began to cough; the coughs became racking, and in alarm Pony knelt by his side, supporting him as he struggled to breath. His clothes were rough and stiff from the dried blood, and as she eased him back she saw how pale his skin was, the several bruises standing out ugly against the clammy whiteness. If only she had more water...  
  
"Pony," he gasped, as the coughs subsided, "Pony, if you wish to ease my suffering in a less...fatal way, you must promise me something."  
  
She eased him back against the rock, smoothing his hair and wiping his face with the hem of her shirt. "What?"  
  
"When Hanley goes to attack Chris and the others," he whispered, "I would very much appreciate it if you did not join your comrades in fighting them. You can surrender quickly, and they will protect you. Otherwise, they will not fail to defend themselves, as much as they will loathe firing on a woman of your age."  
  
Pony laughed softly, her eyes hard. "Yeah, I bet. They got no reason t'let me live." She narrowed her eyes at him. "I almost think this is some kind of trick. Like you was tryin' t'get me killed."  
  
Ezra coughed once and shook his head, the words coming slowly and with great effort. "You don't deserve to die in some Godforsaken desert shootout. There is still a chance for you to break free from this life, if you will only trust these men. It will ease my suffering to know that you, at least, have a chance for escape."  
  
She stared at him. With all that was happening to him, he was worried about her? He had to be delirious. She stood up quickly. "I can't," she said in a hurried voice, settling the canteen over her shoulder. "Hanley would kill me sure, even if they didn't. It's – it's too dangerous."   
  
She looked over her shoulder. "I have to go, before they find me." She stood awkwardly, clenching her fists in agitation. "Look, I – I'll try not t'shoot none of your friends. An' I'm right grateful for how nice you been t'me. Nobody ever gave a damn about me since I was little. I..." She stopped, unable to think of anything else to say.   
  
She drew a deep breath. "Goodbye," was all she could say before she turned and ran out of the cave, overcome with anger and a strange, burning sorrow. She couldn't look back to see if he was watching her.  
  
Pony stumbled onto the rocks and looked quickly around. Dark Sun was nowhere in sight yet, and Hanley's camp was just stirring. She quickly clambered down the rocks, her mind a whirl of grief, pain and confusion. She didn't want to think about what Ezra had said, it was too risky and crazy. She couldn't trust him, trust anybody, no matter what he said about them.  
  
Even if they were men he was willing to die for...  
  
Even if he had seen honor in her.  
  
She leaned against the cold rock wall and fought the tears which threatened to consume her.  
  
"Pony!"  
  
It was Trent's voice, from far away, at the camp. He was waving to her. She sniffed, shaken, and leaned out.  
  
"Let's have some breakfast, gal!" he hollered to her. "We got a big day ahead!"  
  
The other men whooped and laughed, the noise wafting easily towards her on the cool morning breeze. She slumped against the rock, suddenly very weary, and looked up towards the open desert. The slim form of Dark Sun was visible, approaching the cave in a firm stride full of purpose. The spirits must have spoken to him again.  
  
Pony sighed and straightened; they couldn't ever know. Drying her eyes she withdrew her gun and checked the chamber.  
  
"You got it, boys," she yelled back, hoping they didn't notice the break in her voice. "Same as always."  
  
And went off to hunt. And think.  
  
  
  
The Larabee camp was bustling with activity as Chris and the others packed up in preparation for their journey.  
  
"How's it feel to be one day closer to freedom, Vin?" JD called out as the tracker trotted up to the supply wagon; he was in a good mood and greatly enjoying the adventure. Vin gave his head a quick shake and reined in.  
  
"Feel a lot better once it's all done with," he admitted, scanning the horizon. "I ain't countin' on nothin' just yet, JD. Best t'keep your eyes open an' look for trouble 'round every bend."  
  
JD glanced at the flat expanse of land before them. "Well, it shouldn't be too difficult to spot."  
  
Behind them, Chris was adjusting his saddle cinch and looked up at Nathan, who had ridden up next to him.  
  
"Yates all secure?" Chris asked, pulling the belt tighter.  
  
Nathan nodded. "Yup, all tied up in the wagon. Sure did get cooperative all of a sudden."  
  
Chris shook his head as he finished the job and stepped back. "Probably knows there's someone out there comin' for him."  
  
Nathan smiled a little. "Don't trust 'im, huh?"  
  
The other man gave him a keen look, his green eyes sharp with caution. "'Bout as far as I can throw 'im. Keep your guard up."  
  
Hoofbeats pounded through the air, and they looked up to see Josiah trotting through the morning sunshine.  
  
"No sign of trouble, Chris," Josiah announced. "Maybe it was just some wayward prairie dogs that attacked us."  
  
"Maybe," Chris said in a relaxed voice as he climbed onto Valor and gathered up the reins. "Then again maybe they're just real good at keepin' themselves hid." He looked up at the sun. "We'll ride to the river then stop to rest the horses an' eat. Then it'll be on into Texas."  
  
Chris looked over at Vin, a silent question passing between them. Vin answered it with a nod and the slightest of smiles: he felt strong and was ready for whatever lay ahead. Chris returned the nod, and with a rattle and a cloud of dust the party was on its way, riding east with the warmth of the newborn day on their faces.  
  
  
  
Ezra came back to consciousness slowly, feeling very weak but still amazed that he had been allowed to pass out. That luxury had not been granted at any time during the long night just past, and the effects of the pain and exhaustion were such that at first he could make sense of nothing around him. It still seemed like an unimaginable nightmare.  
  
He didn't want to move; motion caused pain, and he had quite enough of it now. His hands were still bound behind him, his arms and shoulders aching unbearably. Memories of what had been done to him filtered through his foggy mind, some of them so vivid that he was almost convinced, in his half – awake state, that they were still going on. Dark Sun had never spoken directly to him, but had often muttered Indian words – they sounded like prayers – while he was engaged in his work.  
  
Ezra's nerves awoke with him, and he bit back a groan as the pain flared anew. It was as if the knife was still being raked across his skin, the unbearable pressure still piercing his skull. A terrible thirst assaulted him. With great effort Ezra controlled himself; they weren't going to hear Ezra Standish cry out, or beg for mercy, while he had the slightest ability to do anything about it. But there was a question of how long that power would last.  
  
After a few moments, Ezra summoned enough strength to open his eyes. He was still in the cave; bright sunlight flooded the entrance. It must be morning. He blinked, unbelieving; could the eternal night truly be over? Had they simply left him to die, or would the agony continue? Ezra realized he wasn't sure which prospect horrified him more.   
  
But Pony...Pony had been here. Or had he imagined that? He recalled that they talked, but the memory was sparse and fragmentary, as if it had happened long ago. He'd asked her to help Chris and the others, to save her own life as well as theirs – did she listen? Or was her heart too hard to allow hope to enter?  
  
Two forms blocked the light of the entryway and came towards him quickly. He pulled back a bit in mindless fear at what might be coming, but the action had little effect. When they drew closer he saw that it was Stan and Gray. Without hesitation each man leaned down and grabbed one of Ezra's arms, heedless of the cuts and bruises, and dragged him outside.  
  
The pain was so terrific that Ezra almost fainted again. The searing cold of shock swamped his body as they carelessly pulled his wounded form over the hard rocks. There was no telling how far he was dragged, but it felt like miles. Finally he was thrown to the ground and abandoned.  
  
His mind whirled in anguish; every wound awoke with new agony as the hot desert dust covered them. Sounds assaulted his ears, horses stamping and snorting, and voices, amused and callous, rising and falling in an indecipherable tide. He forced his eyes open.  
  
Hanley's gang were all around him, mounted and ready, their dark forms framed by the blazing sun, shadows of malevolence blotting out the light. No details or faces could be seen on those black shapes, only outlines stark against the morning brilliance. The cave was far away; he was out in the open, helpless.  
  
"We're off to kill your pals, Standish." It was Hanley's voice, sounding quite pleased. "Dark Sun wanted to cut your guts out, but we just don't have the time. Maybe if you're still alive when we get back we'll do it, how's that sound?"  
  
Laughter from the others; it sounded like an army of demons.   
  
"Okay, let's go," Hanley barked, and without another word they rode away, kicking up clouds of dust over him as they went. He coughed and choked, eyes fixed on the retreating shadows as they disappeared into the blazing sun. One form, smaller than the rest, seemed to hesitate, stop, and turn back to him for just a moment. Then it went with the others, and was gone.  
  
He was alone.  
  
For a long time he just lay panting on the ground, trying to steady his spinning mind and think coherently past the pain. His mouth and throat were parched, his skin burning from the sun relentlessly beating down on him. When he gathered the strength, he opened his eyes, scanning his surroundings in desperation. He was nowhere near any shade; they seemed to have gone out of their way to dump him in the most open area. Even if he could stand, he would never make it to the closest shadow. His stomach clenched in despair.  
  
He closed his eyes again and lay back, wincing as his arms screamed in protest. He tugged at the ropes again, but they held as fast as iron chains. The heat and anguish twisted through him, destroying any perception of time. Soon it felt as if he had been out there for several hours, his pale skin seared by the sun, his bleeding wounds chafed and inflamed by the baking sand. The sun seemed so high and hot; was it noon? Hanley must have found them at the river by now. And there was no longer any way to warn them.  
  
His mind began to wander in the heat and pain. How odd it was, he mused, that last week he was ready to cut himself off from his associates without a second thought, and now he dreaded the idea that they might all be killed. What did he care? They were out of his life either way.   
  
That thought drifted before his mind's eye for a moment, but was swiftly dispelled. It wasn't that simple, and never had been, he realized. He had been badly treated, and the pain from that incident would not go away easily; but there was something larger here, fighting the notion that theirs was a fragile and easily dissolved association. Individually, they were all flawed men, himself included; together, they were still flawed, but also possessed of a strength none of them could comprehend. Ezra could ride away from it, but afterwards neither he nor the ones who remained would ever be truly whole again.  
  
These ideas came to Ezra more as feelings rather than thoughts; he was rapidly becoming exhausted and unable to really think. A tremendous sensation swept over him; he had to go back, he realized, no matter how painful it was, and try to mend what had been broken. The pain and weariness had purged all distracting ideas from his mind; all that remained were the feelings of his heart, and it was telling him that there was only one way to truly heal his wounded soul, and it lay in the hands of the men he had once considered his brothers. If he did not once more dare to trust them, all might be lost.  
  
He opened his eyes again and stared at the sun; was it higher now? Maybe they were all dead already, and whatever they had was irretrievably gone. But, he told himself when he could think, Larabee and the others were fierce fighters; perhaps, even when ambushed, they would prevail. But even that idea did not completely soothe his mind; Pony might be killed, and she would never have the chance to break through the wall of solitude which had imprisoned her for so long.  
  
As it had once imprisoned Ezra.  
  
He coughed, his head pounding from the heat and thirst. Nightmare visions floated before his eyes; Larabee and the others dead, and Hanley riding away in triumph leaving the bodies to rot in the sun. Or, Larabee surviving, gazing at Pony's lifeless corpse, now just another dead outlaw. Riding back, waiting for Ezra, never knowing he had died in the desert; days turning to weeks, years, until they gave up and forgot him. Must've run out again, they'd say. JD and Josiah racked with guilt over what was never said. No hope of apology or forgiveness. Even Nathan as well, perhaps...  
  
Ezra started, opening his eyes; the pain was blinding, even worse than when the torment was actually occurring. The sun was surely way past noon now, he thought. They were all dead, or alive and ignorant of his fate as they rode on to Tascosa; either way, the destiny which they had once shared was lost forever.  
  
During his entire night of agony, Ezra had never once screamed, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of seeing him broken. A gentleman did not allow his enemies to see his weaknesses, no matter how severe. But now, as Ezra considered what had happened, an unutterable sorrow overwhelmed him, a keen sense of mourning for what had been destroyed mingled with consuming frustration over his inability to prevent it. An intense grief engulfed him, with only one possible way of release.   
  
Ezra took a deep breath and cried out in anguish, pouring the pain of his body and soul into his voice. It was brief, and when it was over he lay panting once more on the baking rock, sobbing without tears and vaguely wondering if Hell would be any worse than this.  
  
  
  
Buck scowled as he reined in his horse and scanned the horizon. Where the hell was he?  
  
His heart sank as he glanced up at the sun; it was getting late, and he knew Chris and the others would be at Dutchman Pass by nightfall. He still had time, at least, but not much of it, and he'd lost the trail he was following. A powerful desire to keep moving urged him on; his friends needed to be warned.  
  
He mopped his brow; God, it was getting hot. He took a swig from his canteen and swished it around in his mouth; good thing he'd brought extra water on this trip, a man could die out here. As he replaced the canteen he winced as the wound in his arm stabbed him. The pain gave him an extra incentive to keep moving; he had to find the sonuvabitch who shot him, and have a little chat with the guy.  
  
He took a deep breath and spurred his mount forward, putting the pain and everything else out of his mind. He was ready to drop, but he could relax after they'd dealt with the remnants of Eli Joe's gang. Who knew how many there were, or what they were going to –   
  
Suddenly he shot upright in the saddle, confused. He reined in hurriedly. Was he hallucinating from the heat? He sat still and frowned, straining his ears...  
  
A scream. Far away, but definitely human. Then it was gone.  
  
Buck looked around hurriedly in the direction of the sound; there was noone in sight. He hesitated; he couldn't spare any time, Chris and his other friends needed him bad.  
  
But whoever that was needed help bad, too. He sat, thought, sat and thought some more, quickly, and went with his gut.  
  
"Well, *hell*," he muttered, and rode off quickly in the general direction of the sound, wondering if he'd find a corpse, a trap, or nothing at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Couple more miles to the river," Vin announced as Chris's party rode through the rocks and plains of the desert. The country was becoming more rocky, small mesas and hills jutting up from the barren soil.  
  
"JD, you an' Vin take the patrol while we're settin' up t'eat," Chris said as he trotted by the wagon, watching Vin as the tracker rode off to keep an eye out for trouble.  
  
JD looked over from the driver's seat and sighed. "Geez, Chris, between this wooden seat an' that saddle my backside's gonna be sore for a week!"  
  
"Bet the dime novels didn't mention that, Kid," Josiah grinned as he rode by.  
  
"They sure didn't, preacher," JD replied, snapping the reins. "Wonder if Bat Masterson ever got saddle sores?"  
  
"I'll be sure t'ask 'im next time he turns up," Chris said casually, and leaned over to look into the wagon. "How's Yates doin'?"  
  
JD shrugged, looking behind him into the back of the wagon at Yates' huddled form. "Ain't heard a peep from him. I think he's asleep."  
  
Chris sat back up and glanced at Josiah, a worried expression on his face. "Or bidin' his time."  
  
Josiah nodded, his countenance just as anxious, and the group rode on.  
  
  
  
The staccato pounding of hoofbeats ripped through the hot morning air as Hanley and his gang tore across the plains towards the river. Their expressions were set, their minds on one grim purpose. The plan was to ambush the Larabee group at the river; they had to arrive there first without being seen. And to do that, they had to ride hard.  
  
Each rider's face told of what emotions lay beneath as they pounded in the direction of their destination. Hanley's face was stern and fixed, his eyes determined. Dark Sun's face was as usual unreadable, but his eyes told all, their bright fire blazing unsteadily; he had drawn blood, but the spirits demanded even more.  
  
Trent and Lew were both grinning, looking forward to the battle. Gray was scowling, his sharp eyes dark with the intention of killing the rest of Wilmington's friends. Stan appeared anxious, eager to finish this and find safety in Mexico.  
  
Pony followed them all, keeping up but glancing from time to time behind her, wondering if somewhere back there Ezra was still alive, or dead and past his pain. And wondering as well if there was any truth to his weakly spoken words, or if they were just the ravings of a mind already halfway gone.  
  
  
  
Buck frowned as he wiped his brow and scanned the baking desert before him. There was no trace of anyone, just a bunch of mesas and small rocks, sagebrush and tiny patches of sharp grass. But no sign of whoever had produced that scream.  
  
He sighed and gathered up the reins; no help for it, he had to move on. Maybe whoever it was was dead already; wouldn't be surprised with this heat, he thought sadly, and spurred his horse forward, intent now on reaching his friends.   
  
As he resumed his breakneck pace, he glanced up at the sun; almost noon. They'd be just about at the river by now. Hopefully they'd stop, and Buck could catch up with them there and warn them about the planned ambush at Dutchman Pass. But there was no knowing if that old man had even be speaking the truth, or how many men his gang had. Oh, well, he thought, we'll deal with that later – best not to take chances. He'd have never lived with himself if there was trouble and he knew he could have prevented –   
  
He squinted and shook the sweat out of his eyes. Either the heat was getting him, or there was something dark lying out in the sun up ahead.  
  
"Damn," he whispered, digging the spurs into the heaving ribs of his mount. The horse leapt forward, and as they neared Buck could tell that it was, indeed, a man, still as death.  
  
So I wasn't hearin' things, he thought as he drew closer. Wonder who in the hell would be all the way out here?  
  
His mind quickly went through a list of possibilities in the several seconds it took to get close enough to see. A traveler, maybe, who got jumped – a lost scout – an outlaw who'd been betrayed by his comrades and executed – Buck had seen all of these before, and more. There was no sign of a horse, so whoever it was had walked out here. Or been dumped.  
  
Well, whoever it was, Buck mused, looks like he didn't make it. Reckon I'd best leave 'im for now an' maybe we can bury 'im on...the...way...  
  
He was closer now, close enough to make out the form of the unfortunate person, and as his mind received the information he felt himself go numb with disbelief. Kinds looks like Ezra, he thought at first, but that was impossible as Ezra was in St. Louis. Then, getting closer – hell if that don't look *just* like Ezra, but it can't be. A few seconds later, close enough to see the face and hair now, and Buck's mouth dropped open as a wave of dread surprise consumed him.  
  
Holy God Almighty, he thought, it *is* Ezra!  
  
Buck reined in hard, the horse skidding to a stop several feet from where the motionless body lay. Buck leapt off the horse and ran as fast he could to his friend's side, amazed, frightened and confused.   
  
"Ezra?" he panted as he knelt in the burning sand, placing his hands gently on his friend's shoulders as his wide eyes swept over the gambler's inert form. Oh hell, he thought as the fear boiled through him, oh *hell* he looks like shit. Like someone took a knife to 'im an' beat 'im up, oh hell buddy what did you get yourself into *now*...  
  
At the touch, Ezra stirred and made a very weak choking noise.  
  
"Ezra?" Buck repeated, ripping off his canteen. "Ezra, buddy, y'with me? It's ol' Buck. C'mon now – "  
  
He carefully put his hand on Ezra's shoulder, bending close to catch any words his friend might say, knowing it would be hard to hear past the hammering in his ears. Ezra gasped, coughed, but did not move again. Buck pursed his lips; damn if he was going to find his pal like this and let him die.  
  
"Now c'mon pard," he said, pulling out his knife. "Don't you die on ol' Buck now." He carefully rolled Ezra over a little and sliced the thick ropes which bound his hands behind him. With anxious care he removed the blood–stiffened cords and flung them away, slowly easing Ezra's arms from their cramped position.   
  
"There ya go, c'mon now, gimme some help here," Buck continued, easing Ezra onto his back and lifting him up a little in his arms. With his other arm he brought forward the canteen, pulling the cork out with his teeth and spitting it onto the ground nearby.   
  
"Here," he said quickly, gently placing the mouth of the container on Ezra's parched lips. Ezra made a few small sounds of surprise, eyes still closed, and began to drink.   
  
Buck surveyed his friend's dire condition with alarm as Ezra drank. There was blood everywhere from the long, deep cuts all over his body, mingled with dark, vicious-looking bruises. *Damn, must've been jumped on his way to St. Louis*, he thought. It was the only explanation.  
  
Finally Ezra coughed, and Buck pulled the canteen away, settling him back down on the ground. He seemed to be coming out of it...  
  
"There y'go," he said, his worry subsiding a bit; Ezra would have to recover for Buck to take him with him, he sure wasn't going to leave him out here. "Better, right?" He patted Ezra's shoulder, and his hopes were rewarded; after a few tries, Ezra opened his eyes.  
  
They were only open halfway, and still appeared to be very bleary, but Buck felt encouraged as Ezra blinked a few times, squinting against the sun.  
  
Buck grinned. "Hey, buddy, good t'see ya back."  
  
He felt Ezra jump slightly under his hand, and the bleary green eyes opened wide with what looked like shock, the eyes staring now. Buck felt suddenly very uneasy; Ezra didn't seem to recognize him. He looked – terrified?  
  
Ezra uttered a very weak, strangled shout and lurched backwards, struggling to drag himself out of Buck's grasp. He was breathing very fast now, his face a mask of panic.  
  
Damn, he's lost his mind, Buck thought, the fear returning. He reached out to calm him, placing one hand carefully on the gambler's shoulder. "Hey, Ezra, it's me, Buck! Take it easy there!"  
  
Ezra began to shake his head, but had run out of the strength to move any farther. He lay staring at Buck with wide green eyes for a few moments, still gasping, obviously deeply shaken and confused. Then, very slowly, he reached out with one trembling hand and weakly clutched at Buck's shirt. Realization seemed to cross Ezra's face, although what he was realizing, Buck couldn't guess. The hand gingerly brushed the bloody bandage on Buck's arm, a puzzled frown creasing Ezra's brow.  
  
"Oh," Buck said, looking down at the healing wound, "Ran into an old feller in town who was lookin' for a fight. Got somethin' of a scratch, but it'll heal up."  
  
There was a pause, then Ezra nodded slowly, as if this simple statement had explained a great mystery. Then his eyes slid closed and he slumped back to the earth with a small groan, which almost sounded like one of great relief.  
  
"Hey, c'mon now, buddy," Buck said quickly, catching Ezra before he hit the ground and propping up his friend in his arms. "Just take 'er easy. Whatever you been through, it's over."  
  
Buck patted his friend on the shoulder again as he raised his eyes and scanned the horizon; they had to be moving soon. "You just go on an' catch your breath. We gotta ride like hell soon, but after that we'll – uh – "  
  
Ezra was moving again, plucking at his sleeve urgently and trying to talk.  
  
"Chris," he whispered, his voice rough with exhaustion, "they're – in danger – "  
  
Buck frowned, a prickly feeling scooting up his neck. How could Ezra know about that? He bent lower over the gambler.  
  
"Danger?" Buck repeated. "You mean the ambush?"  
  
Ezra glanced at him, obviously surprised, then nodded. "Yes – we must hurry – " He grimaced against what looked like a wave of pain.  
  
Buck gripped his shoulder gently. "Yeah, I know, but Dutchman Pass is a ways off yet – we oughta be able to get there in plenty of time to – "  
  
"No," Ezra said desperately, his gaze anxious now as he weakly grasped Buck's sleeve. "Not – the pass. They're going to – oh, Lord – " he winced again, his grip on Buck tightening as he rode out another spasm. When he regained his breath, his words were tight and choked as he struggled to speak. "They're going to attack them at the river."  
  
Buck's eyes grew large; the river was a lot closer than the pass, God, they were probably there by now, and in trouble. He looked down at his friend's pale face. "Ezra, how do you know all this?"  
  
Ezra sighed and shook his head. "Long story," he whispered. "But – it's true. We must hurry."   
  
"Y'got that right, pard," Buck replied, shouldering the canteen after locating the stopper. He paused. "Now you know I can't leave y'here, buddy. They'd kill me. So I'll just have t'beg your pardon for this."  
  
With that he carefully slid his arms under Ezra and hoisted the injured gambler into his arms, carrying him as quickly as he could to his horse. Ezra stiffened and cursed through clenched teeth as Buck positioned him on the saddle.  
  
"Just hold on tight now, Ezra," Buck said as he swung up behind the gambler and gathered up the reins, one arm steadying his comrade. "We gotta ride hell for leather."  
  
Ezra grasped the saddlehorn and hung on as they shot forward, tearing across the sands towards the river.  
  
  
Hanley smiled as he peered over the small rise, surveying the river below. It was perfect.  
  
Before him lay the bend of the river, fifty feet wide and curving around several large rocks. This area was more uneven than most of the surrounding landscape; there were small hills and trees, and the river itself flowed over a few sharply dropping falls, each some twenty feet in height. The surrounding area was wide and grassy, leading up to some small hills in the distance. There were plenty of places here to hide, much better than the flat plains of Texas. And Larabee had not arrived yet.  
  
Hanley turned and made his way down the hill to its foot, where the others were waiting. The cliff was steep and rocky, but he moved his large frame through it with easy agility.  
  
"Okay, here's the plan," he said when he reached the bottom, wiping off his hands. "We wait to attack til they're good and relaxed – maybe let 'em eat first. If they don't stop, we'll attack when they're riding across the river. Lew, go keep an eye on 'em, let me know if they start heading somewhere else. Pony, you and Trent take care of their scout."  
  
"Right," Trent grinned, one hand resting on the grip of his gun. Pony merely glanced at Hanley and said nothing.  
  
"Everybody else, wait for my signal to begin," Hanley went on. "Pick a target and don't stop shooting til they're dead. There's seven of us and five of them so we've got the upper hand. When it's over, we'll get Tanner's body and claim the bounty, then head for the border. The rest can be left here to rot."  
  
"What about Yates?" Stan asked, looking up.  
  
Hanley's expression turned dark.  
  
"You leave Yates to me."  
  
  
  
Vin trotted across the shallow, rocky hillside and squinted up at the noontime sun. Gonna be a hot ride, he thought, and sighed. As if it hadn't been hot enough already.  
  
Turning slightly in the saddle, he looked back towards the river, where Chris and the others had just arrived and were setting up for rest and food. Vin's blue eyes strayed from that scene to the wide expanses beyond, guarded by low hills, rocks and mesas. He didn't like it, he decided, too many places to hide. And he couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched...  
  
Spurring Sire forward he rode a good distance away from the group, his eyes sharply studying the area for any signs of trouble. Soon he was out of their sight, trotting over the more barren ground they had just covered. To the west somewhere, JD was doing the same thing. But Vin felt as if two pairs of eyes weren't enough.  
  
He scowled to himself, concerned at his own anxiousness. Normally it took a great deal to bother him, but as they drew closer to Tascosa Vin found himself more and more on edge, an unfamiliar feeling which deeply disturbed him. Was it because he was so close to freedom? Or because they might all be so close to danger?  
  
A swift touch of the spurs, and Sire was off again, trotting down the rocky banks of a dried creek bed. Vin contemplated the situation, even as he looked over every rock and tree for hidden marauders. He had hoped to be truly free again one day, but had never banked anything on the occurrence – life didn't work out according to a plan, and the best one he'd found was to deal with each day as it happened and look no farther. He'd found a place to stay, and good men to pass the days with, and that was all he needed. If he was ever to be free again, he'd figured, it would happen in its own good time.  
  
Now that the time might be drawing near, Vin had to confess to a certain apprehension, hard as he tried to fight it. If anything was going to happen, it would be before they reached Tascosa, and the closer they got the greater the peril became. He rubbed his still–sore healing ribs and grimaced. The man who had jumped him was no desert scavenger; he was a practiced killer, probably that Dark Sun he'd heard tell about, and he likely wasn't alone. They were being hunted, Vin felt sure of it, and there was no telling when the predator might pounce.  
  
The now – familiar twinge in his gut flared again at the thought that any of his friends might be killed for his sake. It was the very last thing Vin wanted, but its possibility was becoming very real. It was a terrible feeling, one which had plagued him since he was attacked. Once he had come to his first thought was the welfare of the other men.   
  
Since then, Vin had contemplated this fact, and examined his earlier resolution to leave the group for its own safety should their present mission fail. His once–solid conviction that it would be for the best was becoming less certain. He knew he could not stay and draw the fire of every bounty hunter and lawman who passed through town. But was it better to abandon his brothers to their own devices? They would still be left to keep peace in the town – only Vin would no longer be able to help them. They would be safe from bounty hunters and trigger – happy marshals, but there were plenty of other scum around. Scum who might find six guns less intimidating than seven.  
  
So, stay and put them in danger, or leave and deprive them of the protection he might provide. A bad fix either way.  
  
Vin sighed and took off his hat, wiping his damp brow on his sleeve; damn, this was getting complicated, he thought as he pulled his hat back on. He preferred simplicity, and there was always a simple way to look at things no matter what the situation was. Once he had the situation figured out, the solution would be clear.  
  
With this heartening thought, Vin pulled out his spyglass and snapped it open, placing the piece against his eye and scanning the distant horizon. Emptier'n a beggar's belly, he decided after sweeping over the landscape a few times. But he could feel that something wasn't right...  
  
There!  
  
Vin sat up, completely alert now as his gaze fixed on one moving object, a horseman approaching at tremendous speed. Damn, his thought, his heart quickening, looks like trouble's comin'. Then he peered closer and frowned.  
  
"Buck?" he whispered, still staring, puzzled. Yep, it was Buck all right, tearing towards the river like he was on fire. Was there trouble in town? A million horrifying scenarios flew through Vin's mind as he studied his friend through the telescope. And he had someone with him, unconscious by the looks of it, and covered with blood – it looked like –   
  
Vin lowered the spyglass, his wide eyes still fixed on the riding figure, too stunned for a moment to move. Then SNAP! went the spyglass as he rammed it shut and shoved it into his pocket. With lightning speed he gathered up his reins and shouted loudly as he spurred Sire into motion, his entire being consumed with dread as he went to meet Buck, convinced his worst fears had been realized.  
  
As he rode closer Vin shouted and waved, relieved to see Buck shout and wave back. But it was the figure who slumped lifelessly before Buck in the saddle who commanded Vin's most urgent attention.  
  
"Vin!" he heard Buck yell, when they were close enough. The gunslinger was dusty and drenched in sweat. "Vin, we got trouble this time."  
  
"What the hell happened?" Vin replied in shock, staring horrified at Ezra's motionless form in Buck's arms. Ezra was deathly pale now, his face slack and shiny with perspiration.  
  
"Found 'im in the desert," was the panted reply. "Ain't got time t'talk, Vin – Chris an' the others are gonna be ambushed at the river. Heard it from one of the bastards involved. It's Eli's gang, they're out for revenge."  
  
Vin's eyes widened. "Oh, shit," he breathed, the reins tight in his hands. Then he nodded. "I'll go warn 'em, Buck, you just get Ezra somewhere safe."  
  
"Right behind ya, pard," Buck shot back, tightening his grip on Ezra as Vin turned his horse around. They tore back towards the river, a painful knot tying itself in Vin's stomach. The fight had come.  
  
It was time to meet it.  
  
  
  
JD guided his horse carefully up the small grassy hill, his hazel eyes studying the area around him. He fidgeted in the saddle and wiped his brow; another scorcher. But he didn't care, as long as they got this over with soon.  
  
The young man sighed as he spurred his mount along gently. It would be so great to have this finally done with, so they could all go back home. Then things could go back to the way they used to be.  
  
Of course, he thought sadly, he still had to apologize to Ezra, but now he figured he could do that and only be a little nervous. Nathan may have thought Ezra was only getting what he asked for, but JD knew he didn't feel that way. It didn't seem right for them to argue, for Ezra to be off on his own. There was nothing that said they had to all get along, of course, but it felt funny when they didn't. And JD knew he didn't like it.  
  
So, he'd decided, it would be awkward and probably embarrassing, but when they all got back, he'd just go to Ezra and apologize for making him mad. He still didn't know what he'd say, but he was pretty sure he could think of something. The worst Ezra could do would refuse to accept, and that would be awful, but at least JD would know he'd tried. And maybe after a while Ezra would change his mind.   
  
Then, he thought with hope lifting his young heart, then they could all get back to sitting in the saloon at night, laughing and playing cards. He'd lose his shirt to Ezra, of course, but even that wouldn't bother him too much. They'd all be together again, and Vin would be free, and they could return to keeping the peace like they were hired to do. JD was pretty sure it was supposed to be that way, and he was looking forward to that day.  
  
He reined in and took one more look around. He was at the base of a rocky hill, skirted by large boulders. Nothing here; his patrol had taken him pretty far out. Time to ride back and –   
  
*THUD!*  
  
Pain exploded in his head as he toppled off of his horse; on the way to the ground the thought flashed through his mind that he'd been shot. But as he landed solidly on the unforgiving rocks, he realized he'd been struck in the head with a large rock, which he heard land nearby. He struggled to sit up, somewhat stunned, and absently felt behind his left ear. He brought the hand back and stared at it. Blood. A little only, but still...  
  
*Click!*  
  
JD started at the small sound, and groped for his gun as he looked up.  
  
Two figures stood before him, both pointing their weapons straight at his heart. A young guy about his age, in once-fine clothes and a battered top hat, regarding him with an oily smile of triumph. And a girl, no more than sixteen, with very short brown hair, in very dirty jeans and a boy's shirt.  
  
The top–hatted young man looked very pleased as he cocked his head, his smile growing wider.  
  
"Hello, dead man," was all he said.  
  
  
  
Hanley scowled at the scene below as he and Gray lay hidden in the rocks. Larabee's group had arrived and were setting up for lunch, just as he'd hoped they would. Soon they would be distracted and lay down their weapons to eat. Then they would strike.  
  
"Well?" Gray whispered, fingering his gun.  
  
"Relax," Hanley hissed back, still watching his prey. "It won't be long now."  
  
  
  
Josiah glanced up at the sun as he walked away from the camp to where some of the horses were resting in the shade of the hills. It was a little cooler here, but not much, he thought as he placed two buckets of cold water down in front of the panting beasts. As they dipped their soft mouths into the water and lapped it up, Josiah raised his eyes to the horizon, ready to offer another prayer for the safety of their journey.  
  
As soon as his eyes met the horizon, he froze.  
  
Vin and another rider were coming up fast, clouds of dry, hot dust swirling behind him. And the other rider was – Buck! And someone else...  
  
When they were close enough to see, Josiah's heart dropped within him, and he could only raise an agonized, private prayer: Dear God...  
  
"Josiah!" Vin yelled as they rumbled up. "We got trouble!"  
  
"Dear Lord, Buck, what happened?" the preacher gasped, moving to where Ezra sat slumped and motionless in Buck's arms. Vin shot past them both and on towards the nearby camp.  
  
"No time t'explain, Josiah," Buck said quickly. "Heard tell of an ambush here at the river. Eli's gang, or what's left of it."  
  
Josiah shook his head. "Evil never dies completely, does it? Here," He reached up. "I'll get Ezra somewhere safe, you go on."  
  
Buck nodded, and he helped Josiah ease Ezra from the saddle into the large man's arms. Ezra was almost white now, his arms and legs hanging as if the bones inside were gone.  
  
As Josiah settled Ezra in his grasp, he looked up at Buck as a thought suddenly occurred to him. "JD's on patrol – he's out around the camp somewhere."  
  
Buck sighed and pulled his hat down. "Knowin' that boy he's found trouble already. I'll find 'im."  
  
With a loud shout Buck took off, pounding across the terrain to look for JD. Josiah glanced down at Ezra, horrified at his friend's condition, sure he must be dead. But there was still the gentle rise and fall of the chest which indicated that life had not yet fled.  
  
Relieved, Josiah held Ezra closer, as if to protect him from any bullets that may start flying, and went to find a safe spot for the gambler to rest in. His heart hoped that this was a false alarm, and there was nothing to worry about.  
  
His gut was not as optimistic.  
  
  
  
Chris sat on a rock next to the campfire, chewing absently on a hard roll and watching Nathan as the healer carefully set up the black iron cooking pot. Behind them the river ran swiftly, mostly hidden by rocks and trees. Chris peered at the wide, flowing waters; they'd need to find a way to cross –   
  
"Vin's comin'!"  
  
The urgent tone of Nathan's voice caused Chris to look up in apprehension. The tracker was riding in very fast, and that meant trouble. Chris's hand gripped his gun as he stood, his long black duster flapping in the hot wind.  
  
"Chris!" Vin was yelling as he rode in, his hat off, his long brown curls whipping wildly as he pounded up.   
  
Nathan was standing too now, clearly worried. "What's wrong?" he shouted.  
  
"Ambush!" was the reply.  
  
  
Hanley had been waiting patiently, watching every move Larabee's gang made, looking for Yates – who was on the far side of the camp, next to the wagon, still tied up – and waiting.  
  
"Look!" he heard Gray whisper. Hanley's eyes peered through the dense rocks to see Tanner riding up, hard, and a bad feeling slammed him in the stomach.  
  
"Oh shit," he muttered.  
  
Tanner got closer; Larabee and that darky were up now, alert, and the hopes for an easy victory got smaller.  
  
They heard Tanner shout "Ambush!" but little else; their surprise attack was no longer a surprise. Damn! But there were only three of them here, and Trent and Pony must have killed that kid...  
  
"Now what?" Gray moaned, clearly frightened. Hanley calmly cocked his gun and gave Gray a solid grin.  
  
"They're expectin' an attack, ain't they? Then let's give 'em one."  
  
With that Hanley rose and opened fire.  



	5. Default Chapter Title

Pony had never been so nervous at a gunfight before, and she found herself shaking as she waited for Trent to kill the kid who lay still stunned before them. Her heart hammered in her chest; she'd promised Ezra she'd help his friends, but he didn't know what he was asking. If Trent didn't kill her for doing so, then these 'friends' probably would. They were all alike –   
  
Trent was having the time of his life, grinning at the sight of the young man helpless.  
  
"Now let's see," he was saying softly, "where you wanna get shot, kid? Head? Gut? I know just where t'put a bullet where it'll take you weeks to die..."  
  
Pony sighed, in as much agony as the kid. If only Trent would kill him so she wouldn't have to decide. "For God's sake, Trent..."  
  
"Shut up!" Trent shouted, shoving the gun farther in the kid's direction. "I aim t'enjoy this if it's all the same to – "  
  
"JD!"  
  
Pony and Trent both looked up, as did the young man. Pounding across the prairie towards them was another man on horseback, one of the boy's allies by the looks of it.  
  
The young man's eyes widened. "Buck?"  
  
Trent was shaking his head as he aimed his gun. "He's dyin' after you, kid!" he yelled.  
  
Pony gasped, her heart leaping into her throat, her body going cold as she watched Trent take aim at Ezra's friend. Ezra's words leapt to her mind.  
  
*There is still a chance for you to break free*  
  
With one lightning-fast movement Pony palmed her gun and struck Trent as hard as she could across the back of the head. He gagged a little in pain and surprise, the gun firing harmlessly into the air, then fell motionless to the ground.  
  
Pony stood for a moment, unbelieving that she had actually done that, panting as she stared at the inert form of her comrade. Then she raised her eyes and looked at the kid, who was staring at her with an expression just as amazed as her own must have been. She couldn't move.  
  
The horseman thundered up. "JD!" He was off the horse in an instant, charging towards Pony, his gun aimed straight at her. "You all right, kid?"  
  
JD was panting as he pulled himself up, rubbing his head. "Yeah – yeah, I'm fine."  
  
The man was looking at Pony in a very odd way, she thought, but there was still anger in his blue eyes. "Okay, missy, drop that peashooter," he said, "nice an' slow."  
  
She hesitated – still time to drop 'em both and get out of there – but then relented and tossed it away. There was nowhere to go to.  
  
"Easy, Buck, she saved my life," the kid named JD was saying, in a voice tinged with wonder.  
  
The one named Buck was prodding Trent's motionless form with his toe. "That a fact?' he inquired, a skeptical tone in his voice.  
  
"Yeah," JD insisted, staring at the blood on Buck's shirt. "Hey – God, Buck, what happened to you? You all right?"  
  
Buck nodded. "I'm fine, Junior, but there ain't no time t'explain. Chris an' the others – "  
  
The distant popping of gunfire drifted over the prairie. Buck's eyes grew wide.  
  
"Shit!" he spat. "It's an ambush, kid, we gotta ride."  
  
"Holy – !" JD's words were cut off as they hurriedly tied up Trent and flung him over the back of Buck's horse. Buck tore off towards the camp, Trent's unconscious form bouncing limply behind the saddle.  
  
Pony was dizzy; they didn't kill Trent or her, not yet anyway. She thought sure they would...  
  
"Uh, miss?"  
  
Pony blinked and looked at JD. Nobody had called her Miss since – well, since her father.  
  
JD was holding out his hand to her. "C'mon, we gotta ride. No funny business, okay?"  
  
She stared, and before she realized it he had swooped her up into his saddle and they were tearing back towards the camp. The gunfire was increasing.  
  
"Why'd you save my life?" JD yelled as they rode.  
  
"Wasn't your life I was thinkin' on," she confessed.   
  
They rode into the camp.  
  
  
  
Hanley swore to himself as he saw another horseman arrive.  
  
"Damn!" he snarled, ducking behind a rock. "But the odds are still in our favor. Gray, you go – "  
  
He stopped, staring at Gray. The old soldier had risen to a crouch and was gazing at the newly arrived gunman in stupefied amazement. After a few moments Gray stomped his foot.  
  
"Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!" he screamed.  
  
"For God's sake, Gray, you old fool!" Hanley growled. "Get down before you get shot!"  
  
"It's Wilmington, dammit it all to hell!" Gray replied, dropping to his knees beside Hanley.   
  
Hanley grunted without sympathy for Gray's anxiety. "Looks pretty good for a dead man."  
  
A bullet ricocheted off the rock that was sheltering them, showering them with dust.  
  
"Ain't gonna be that way for long," Gray replied, his eyes blazing.  
  
Hanley grabbed him by the collar. "First things first, Gray. After this, you can do what you want to him. Go tell the others to give me cover, an' kill as many of Larabee's men as they can."  
  
He released Gray and began to crawl down the back side of the hill.  
  
"Where you goin'?" Gray asked, ducking another bullet.  
  
Hanley glanced up, a deadly expression on his face.  
  
"To kill Yates."  
  
  
Nathan, Vin and Chris dove for cover as the bullets started flying, each man returning the attack with deadly intent.  
  
"Damn!" Chris yelled as he flattened himself on the ground behind a boulder, reaching around the rock to return fire. The sound of gunshots filled the air, bullets cracking against rock and spraying dust into the air as they impacted the hot dirt.  
  
"Can y'see 'em?" Nathan hollered from his position behind the wagon a few yards away.  
  
"Chris!" Vin yelled above the din.  
  
Chris looked over to where Vin crouched behind a rock, but before he could reply Nathan's voice rent the air.  
  
"There's another one!"  
  
They all looked up to see a horseman barreling towards them, a dark form against the bright noonday sunlight.  
  
Chris aimed his gun carefully.  
  
"Chris, wait!" Vin yelled. "It's Buck!"  
  
Chris blinked at him. "Buck?" he cried in amazed confusion.  
  
They all watched as the rider pounded into view; it was indeed Buck, dusty and exhausted but ready to fight. One arm was wrapped in a bloody bandage, covering what appeared to be a gunshot wound. Slung across the front of his saddle was the bound inert form of a young man, presumably one of the gunmen. He steered his mount behind them, firing his gun all the while at their hidden attackers, before leaping off. With one swift movement he pulled the unconscious prisoner from his saddle, dumping him onto the ground behind them. That done, he joined Chris behind the boulder.  
  
"Howdy there," he gasped, peeling off another shot in the direction of the shots.  
  
"Buck!" Chris repeated, his green eyes wide. "What the hell's goin' on?"  
  
"Heard Eli's gang was gunnin' for ya, pard, thought ya might like t'know," was the reply as Buck quickly reloaded his gun. "Plum near didn't make it. That fella there's one of Eli's men, almost got JD."  
  
A bullet struck the rock, sending small splinters and dust into the air with a loud crack. Both men ducked a little.  
  
Chris was silent for a few moments as they concentrated on finding their prey, then looked at Buck's blood–smeared shirt. "You hurt?"  
  
Buck glanced down, then snapped his gun closed as he finished reloading. "Not me, pard, 'cept for this scratch on my arm."  
  
Chris glanced at him and frowned a question at him.  
  
Buck's expression turned grim. "It's Ezra's."  
  
The green eyes grew wide again. "Ezra?"  
  
Nathan looked over too, surprise plain on his face. "Thought he was in St. Louis!"  
  
Buck's expression was sad and anxious. "Must've been jumped or somethin', he's in a powerful bad way. Left im with Josiah. Damn good thing I ran across im, he told me they was comin' for ya here instead of Dutchman Pass. If I hadn't known that I woulda found y'all too late."  
  
Chris shook his head as he ducked a bullet. "If we all survive this, I'm gonna be wantin' some answers."  
  
"Me too, buddy," was Buck's reply as he wiped the dust from his eyes and peered around the rock. "Where the hell is JD?"  
  
  
  
Josiah peered through the rocks and brush covering the hillside, trying to see where their attackers were. They hadn't started firing in his direction yet – he was some distance away from the fighting – but he was still close enough to better their chances, if he could see where they were hiding.  
  
He spared a quick glance at Ezra, his gut twinging in sorrow at his friend's condition. The gambler was still lying exactly where Josiah placed him in the shade, not moving and barely breathing. There was nothing Josiah could do for him now, and he felt the bitter gall of regret rise in his heart.  
  
Hoofbeats reached his ears. He turned to see JD riding up from the prairie, along with a young girl. There were signs of blood on the side of the young man's head.  
  
"JD, you all right?" the preacher yelled.  
  
JD didn't reply as he reined in; his eyes were fixed on the motionless, pale figure lying behind Josiah's sheltering form.  
  
"Oh my God!" JD exclaimed, his hazel eyes round with horror. The girl leaped off the horse and ran to Ezra's side.  
  
Josiah looked at her warily. "Who's this, JD?"  
  
"It's okay, Josiah, she saved my life," JD answered, his voice still thin with shock. "She was in Eli's gang, but she surrendered."  
  
Josiah nodded, studying her closely as she bent over Ezra. "What's your name, Miss?"  
  
"Pony," was the quick reply. She looked up. "Is he gonna make it?"  
  
Josiah sighed and looked back at the camp. "Right now, Miss Pony, I can't rightly say any of us are going to make it. JD, best get in there an' give Chris some help. I'll look after things here."  
  
JD made no reply as he sat for a moment, gazing at Ezra in open dismay. hen with one quick motion he leapt from his horse and ran ahead, ducking behind boulders as the bullets began to fly his way.  
  
Josiah popped off a few shots into the hill. "How come you know Ezra?"  
  
"Long story, mister," was the terse reply. "No time for it now."   
  
When Josiah looked back again he could see her examining Ezra's wounds in a way which reminded him of Nathan's careful manner.  
  
"There's six of 'em up there," she was saying as she placed a dusty hand against Ezra's forehead.  
  
"They here to free Yates?" Josiah asked, keeping an eye on the hill for any signs of movement. He could see JD behind the wagon next to Nathan, firing away. When she didn't answer, Josiah turned to see her looking at him with large, serious brown eyes.  
  
"They're here t'kill Yates," she said simply, and went back to looking after Ezra.  
  
  
  
Yates hunkered down inside the wagon, scared to death a bullet was going to come through and kill him. It was about time they came for him, he thought, but they didn't know where he was!  
  
Shots exploded close by; Larabee's men must be behind the wagon, he told himself. Great! But he knew Hanley would find a way to spring him, and together they'd rid the world of Larabee and his high-riding gang and get the hell out of America for good.  
  
A bullet splintered the wood frame next to the mouth of the back of the wagon. Yates shrank back, wishing his hands were free so he could climb out. In front of him, some fifty feet away, was the rocky, tree–covered base of the hill; he scanned it anxiously, knowing that it was just the sort of cover Hanley liked. Sure enough, he could see the boss's huge form lurking among the shade of the trees. He was waving his gun at Yates: time to go. He'd give Yates protection.  
  
Yates looked around, licking his lips; it would be tricky, getting out of the wagon and over to the hill without getting shot, but he'd had enough of being Larabee's prisoner. He scooted to the edge of the wagon's back and peered around. All of the attention of Larabee and his men was on the hill.  
  
Good.  
  
Yates swung his legs out and pushed himself out of the wagon, landing with a dusty THUD.  
  
"Yates!" he heard someone shout; sounded like that kid. He jumped to his feet and started running towards the foot of the hill, ducking as bullets rained over his head to cover his escape. Guns fired behind him; a bullet buried itself in the back of his right leg, but as he sank to the ground with a curse he felt Hanley grab his shoulder and haul him to safety.  
  
"About time," he wheezed as he looked into his boss's face.   
  
To his surprise, Hanley said nothing, his grip still tight on Yates' shoulder. He turned and began dragging the bleeding, bewildered Yates away, and the pain–wracked marshal had no strength to do anything but wonder why Hanley was pulling him towards the river.  
  
  
  
Vin's sharp blue eyes grazed the top of the hill as he tried to make out forms against the tall rocks and scrub trees.  
  
"How many ya think?" he heard Chris shout over the blasting gunfire.  
  
"Five or six," Vin cried, rising to snap off a shot from his sawed–off Winchester before dropping back down. "Looks like they're stayin' put."  
  
A sudden burst of bullets caused him to duck back, and he heard JD and Nathan shouting something. He looked over to the wagon but saw nothing; then, a form slipping away into the hills, a spray of bullets covering his escape.  
  
Vin realized, and yelled, "Aw, *hell*! Chris!"  
  
"What?" Chris's voice shouted back. Vin was still staring at the path the form had taken.  
  
"Yates is gone!" Vin exclaimed, and primed his gun. Damned if they were going to come so far, and go through so much, only to have the bastard slip away at the last minute. And damned if Yates was going to get away with putting his friends in danger.  
  
He got off a few more rounds and rose to follow them. A hail of bullets met this attempt, a few of them creasing Vin's skin, knocking his hat off. Vin dropped back behind the rock, his blue eyes ablaze with determination. They were covering Yates' escape, but they couldn't cover it forever.  
  
  
  
Trent groaned as he came to, awakened by the roar of gunfire and whizzing bullets. Dammit, he thought blearily as he pulled on his bound wrists, his head throbbing. He was lying face down in the grass, his hands tied behind him. Lifting his head a bit, he saw the fight spread out before him; he was near the horses. Some distance away Larabee and Tanner crouched behind rocks, shooting; on the far side from him was the wagon, at the foot of the tall, rocky hill.  
  
He sucked in his breath and tried to sit up, twisting to release himself from the ropes. Pony, he thought as he glared out at the battle. That damn turncoat bitch must have buffaloed me. Anger swelled in him, and suddenly getting Larabee didn't seem half as important as teaching that little traitor a fatal lesson.  
  
He pulled himself up, relieved to see that no one was watching him. Plenty of rocks around; he felt with his fingers as he backed up, hoping to find a nice cutting edge. The tips touched a cold, rough surface, with not too sharp an edge but it would have to do. Quickly he sawed the ropes against it, watching carefully to make sure he wasn't spotted. Hanley's attack on Larabee, it appeared, was well in hand.  
  
Trent had his own score to settle now.  
  
  
  
Behind the wagon, the firing had stopped for a moment, as Nathan hastily bandaged JD's arm.  
  
"Just hold still," the healer breathed as he wrapped the ripped strip of cloth around the bleeding flesh wound.  
  
JD was fidgeting, staring after the path Yates had taken. "We gotta go after Yates, Nathan. He's the only chance at freedom Vin's got!"  
  
"I know that, JD," Nathan replied as he firmly tied off the cloth. "But you only got one arm t'shoot with now, an' you ain't goin' nowhere if I can help it. We got trouble enough here."  
  
JD looked abashed and palmed his gun in his other hand.  
  
Nathan peered around the wagon, watching as Vin made another attempt to go after Yates. A burst of bullets aborted that try, but Vin was clearly inching closer to making a run for it.  
  
"Looks like Vin's gonna take care of Yates, if he can break free," Nathan said as he picked up his gun and checked the chamber. "We gotta be ready t'back 'im up when he does."  
  
JD grimaced as he cocked his Colt with his good arm. "I'm ready as I'll ever be, doc. But if this keeps up I'm gonna be shootin' my gun with my teeth!"  
  
  
  
"Looks like the boss got Yates out," Stan grunted as he reloaded his rifle. "Tanner's tryin' t'go after 'im, make sure he stays put."  
  
"Hey, I think I got the kid!" Lew exulted from his cover behind an old dead tree.  
  
Gray was glaring at the rock which hid the mustached horseman, his eyes full of hate. "I'll be happy just t'get Wilmington."  
  
"Enough for everyone, boys!" Lew replied. "Hey, where'd that crazy white Injun go?"  
  
"Dark Sun?" Stan shuddered. "Probably t'slit some throats. He's got his own ways of fightin'."  
  
Bullets flew up the hillside, shattering the limbs of the trees. Dry leaves and bits of wood showered down on the outlaws.  
  
Lew sighed as he ducked behind his tree. "Well, his way sounds more excitin' than this way. I don't know about you guys, but I'm ready t'go down there and go hand to hand."  
  
Stan shrugged as he fired another round. "Go ahead. Now that Yates is gone it's every man for himself."  
  
Lew grinned. "Just the way I like it."  
  
  
  
Dark Sun lay low in the bushes, watching.  
  
They hadn't seen him, of course. He had learned long ago how to move without noise, able to go where he wished and see what he wanted without hindrance. The spirits' voices were very clear now, repeating their age–old command to him, the one he'd heard since he was a boy. Only by causing the suffering of others could he bring an end to his own pain, and the time had come to continue his mission.  
  
He could see that he was behind them now; he was close to the wagon, could see Yates drop out and run away. Hanley would take care of Yates; there were other avenues for Dark Sun to use.  
  
From here, he knew, he could shoot at least two of them before he would be stopped. But there would not be enough pain that way. Besides, he'd seen the black man tending to the young one. A healer, he realized. He'd seen such men before, and hated them.  
  
If they had a healer, they wouldn't suffer. If they didn't suffer, Dark Sun's torment would never be over.  
  
Therefore, they could not have a healer.  
  
Dark Sun lay himself lower to the ground, pulled out his knife, and began slowly and carefully crawling towards the wagon.  
  
  
Yates could barely keep up as Hanley dragged him away from the camp and down to the banks of the river. The sounds of the gun battle faded behind them, and Yates noticed that Hanley didn't seem to care about the fight at all.  
  
Finally they stopped on the rocky bank overlooking the rushing waters. The river flowed swiftly past them and crashed down a twenty–foot drop to continue its journey below; a short distance further was another drop, even taller, until the river found a level path once more. The noise of the moving water drowned out all else, and Yates glanced with concern at the sharp rocks jutting out of the glistening river. He hated water.  
  
"All right, this is far enough," Hanley pronounced, turning to Yates.  
  
Yates grinned and held out his bound hands. "Great! Get these ropes off me an' let's go teach that Larabee an' his crew a thing or two."  
  
The huge man smiled but made no move to free Yates. "Oh, they'll learn their lesson all right, but you won't be teachin' 'em nothin'."  
  
A cold feeling swept over the other man that had nothing to do with the clammy spray being kicked up by the rushing water. He frowned and said in an uncertain voice, "What?"  
  
Hanley was checking the chamber of his gun. "You got sloppy, Yates. I hate sloppy men. You got caught once and I can't take the chance you'll get caught again."  
  
"But – but – " Yates sputtered as Hanley very calmly began reloading his empty gun, "I've been with Eli longer than you!"  
  
"Exactly," was Hanley's reply as he looked Yates over with a deadly eye. "You'd be the boss if you came back, wouldn't you? Instead of me?"  
  
Yates didn't like this at all. he took a step back, slipping a little on the wet rocks. "N – now wait, you can be boss, I don't care. Just get me out of this, and it's all yours, the money we stashed away, the gang, all of it! I swear!"  
  
Hanley laughed. "Why would I trust a weasel like you, Yates? Eli trusted you and look what happened to him. I bet Tanner trusted you too, you probably told him you'd sing like a damn bird when you got to Tascosa. Bet you were gonna tell 'em about us too. Right?"  
  
Yates shook his head, desperately working to free his hands; the constant spray of water was making the ropes slick, and they were coming loose, the rough hemp tearing his skin. He didn't care. "No, Hanley I wasn't gonna tell 'em nothin' – "  
  
Hanley snapped his now–loaded gun closed and smiled. "An' you still ain't."  
  
  
  
Vin licked his lips as he peered through the rising smoke and dust. Every minute meant Yates was getting further away.  
  
He looked over to Chris; the gunslinger's hat was off and he was covered in sweat, his blonde hair hanging in limp dusty strands as he fired, ducked down, eased himself up and fired again. As he dropped back down behind the rock he looked over at Vin, and their eyes locked.  
  
Vin nodded. Chris knew what that meant, and nodded too.  
  
The tracker primed his Winchester, took a quick deep breath to steady himself, and launched himself from behind the rock, sprinting in the direction Yates and Hanley had taken.  
  
Gunfire exploded all around him; he felt the bullets tear at his clothes and graze his skin. His wounds protested as the still–tender skin twisted and tore. Vin ignored the pain, intent only on finding his prey, and soon he was beyond the hills. He stopped, looked around, took a breath, and hurried his steps towards the river.  
  
  
Chris watched as Vin took off, then turned to Buck. "Vin's gonna need some help," he shouted over the gunfire.  
  
Buck nodded. "You go get 'em, pard, we'll take care of these varmints."  
  
Chris swiftly loaded his gun and rose, but was soon forced back by a hail of bullets aimed straight at him.  
  
"Damn!" he shouted, falling back. Blood trickled from a graze on his forehead.  
  
He looked at the hill with gritted teeth; they weren't going to let him help Vin.  
  
"Y'all right?" he heard Buck yell over the din. Chris's green eyes were blazing as he sat up and palmed his guns, staring with lethal intensity at the smoke–covered hill.  
  
"Look like they aim t'make us stay here," Buck yelled as he fired another round at their attackers.  
  
Chris felt the anger rise within him. "Then they'll be disappointed," he whispered.  
  
  
  
"How's he doin'?" Josiah yelled to Pony as he ducked a shot. He couldn't afford to look back.  
  
"Still out," he heard the young girl say. "You got any water?"  
  
Josiah shook his head. "It's all back at camp."  
  
She sighed. "His wounds need cleanin' somethin' awful."  
  
Josiah ducked another shot and sent a reply back. "You know about healin'?"  
  
"'Course. Someone had t'stitch up the hurts." There was a pause. "They'll be comin' down t'fight hand–to–hand in a minute."  
  
"Not surprisin'," Josiah said as he fell back and reloaded his gun. "You just keep an eye on Ezra, I'll make sure nothin' happens to you."  
  
"I can take care of myself, mister," Pony said with a touch of irritation. "Just gimme a gun an' I can hold off about anyone."  
  
Josiah looked at her for a second and smiled. "I'm right grateful to you for helpin' Ezra, Miss, but you ain't gettin' a gun."  
  
She sighed angrily. "So what do I fight with, if they come down here?"  
  
Josiah finished his task and looked up at the hill. "I'd recommend a few words to the Almighty t'start with, Miss. Then if you need a gun you can have mine."  
  
He heard her pause. "But what'll you use?"  
  
"Well, I'd die before I'd let them come after you an' Ezra," was the pragmatic reply as Josiah fired into the hill, "so I reckon by the time you'd need 'em, I'll be dead."  
  
He took a second out to look at her, and saw the puzzled look on her face.  
  
"You'd die t'protect us?" she asked in a very confused voice.  
  
Josiah shrugged. "If that's the way the Lord wants it. Oh, and mind this Peacemaker, it's got a sticky trigger."  
  
And he went back to fighting.  
  
  
  
Yates stared as Hanley raised the gun and aimed it at his chest. He was seconds away from dying, he had to do something –   
  
With a deep breath Yates whirled and leaped into the river. It was only a few feet deep, but the current was very swift, and he had to struggle to keep his footing on the rough, uneven river bed.  
  
"Dammit, Yates!" he heard Hanley bellow. The gun exploded twice; Yates threw himself into the water, hoping the rapidly flowing current would hide him. One bullet creased his side, the other missed, and while he was underwater Yates managed to pull off the sodden, slippery ropes which bound his wrists. They were torn and bleeding, but they were now free.  
  
He heard Hanley splashing through the river towards him and roared back to his feet, whipping the water from his eyes. Full of fury at the betrayal, he leapt at his former boss, and they both fell into the water as the gun discharged harmlessly into the air. The rocks tore at them both as they struggled in the water, locked in a death grip.  
  
Hanley swore and tried to break Yates' hold on him; both of them grappled for the gun, and in the tussle it fell from Hanley's grasp and dropped into the raging river. With rage boiling through him, giving the coward strength he had never known before, Yates took hold of his boss's hair and slammed Hanley's head repeatedly against the closest rock, screaming curses all the while about Hanley betraying him.   
  
Hanley gagged and struggled, but his efforts were weakening. Seeing his chance, Yates plunged his hand into the water, groping until he felt the cold metal beneath his fingers. Still dazed, Hanley could do nothing as Yates lifted the weapon triumphantly out of the water, pointed it at Hanley's face and pulled the trigger.  
  
There was a thunderous report. Hanley let out a gurgling scream and spun backwards, falling face down into the water amid a spray of blood and bone. A crimson flow soon bloomed around his head and the body lost all signs of life. With contempt Yates kicked at it as it drifted away. He panted, exhausted, as he watched the form follow the flow of the water; it drifted to the edge of the falls, paused, then fell over, and he heard Hanley hit the bottom of the drop with a lethal thud.  
  
Yates smiled to himself; now for Tanner, he thought, and turned to make his way back to the battle.  
  
Instead he found himself facing the silhouetted form of Tanner on the shore of the river, his Winchester pointed at Yates' head.  
  
"Howdy," was all Vin said.  
  
  
  
Nathan snapped his gun open to reload. The healer cursed to himself as he peered around the edge of the wagon; he didn't like the way this was coming out at all. JD was wounded, so were Chris and Buck. None of them were serious but that might change, and there was no telling how he himself would fare when this was all over. Eli's men seemed determined to fight to the last; so did they, Nathan knew. And before that end came things would likely get quite ugly indeed.  
  
"How you doin', JD?" he yelled as he shot at the hill.  
  
"I'm okay," was the reply, and Nathan instantly recognized the strain of weariness in the young man's voice. JD was tiring out; that might make him sloppy, and that in turn might make him dead.  
  
Nathan was about to tell JD to take it easy when something stopped him. His fugitive slave's intuition told him that he was being watched.  
  
Whirling to look behind him, Nathan was stunned to see the buckskin–clad form of a slender blonde young man, standing with knife in hand not ten feet away. The figure stared at him for a moment, then lunged forward.  
  
"Hey!" Nathan yelled to alert JD to the danger, and by pure instinct whipped a knife from his back holster and hurled it at the intruder. JD turned and fired at the same instant, and the young man staggered back, dropping his knife and grasping at the hilt of Nathan's weapon which projected from his shoulder. Blood began to seep from a bullet wound in his side, but he made no sound, and once he regained his footing he stood and gazed at Nathan, his blue eyes wide and unreadable.  
  
Nathan got his breath back and paused; it had to be the same guy who attacked Vin, he thought as the two stared at each other.   
  
"Want me to kill 'im?" JD asked, holding his gun on the youth.  
  
Nathan hesitated. "Wait, JD," he said. "Look at his eyes – he ain't right in the head."  
  
The young man gasped and took a step back. Blood now flowed heavily from both wounds.  
  
"Easy," Nathan said, hoping to save a life if possible. "We won't hurt you no more if y'all give up now. You got a lot of hurts that need fixin', I can see that."  
  
The young man continued to stare at him, took another step back, then turned and dashed into the woods.  
  
"Damn!" Nathan cried, and followed him.  
  
  
  
Yates laughed as Vin stared at him down the barrel of his Winchester.  
  
"You won't kill me, Tanner," he said with a smile.  
  
"Try me," was the hoarse reply.  
  
But Yates shook his head. "You need me alive, remember? I'm the only one who can clear you of those murders. You might just wound me, but I don't think you'll risk me dying of infection. It's still a long way to Tascosa. Course, at the risk of bein' rude," he added, looking at Vin's pale face and the blood now seeping through his clothes from the reopened wounds, "you ain't lookin' so good yourself."  
  
"Eli's gang is finished, Yates," Vin exclaimed, the glint in his blue eyes becoming deadlier as his fingers tightened around the Winchester. "An' you are too. Throw away that gun an' come along."  
  
Yates took a few steps towards him, his ankles sloshing in the bloody water, and waded onto the bank. Vin kept the rifle trained on him, mindful of tricks. Their eyes locked as Yates held the gun out to Vin grip–first, and as Vin reached for it Yates hurled himself at the tracker with all of his might, knocking them both into the river.  
  
Vin gasped as he struck the hard, shallow riverbed, the cold waters closing over him. With effort he hauled himself up; Yates was grappling for the Winchester. Vin crashed the butt into his face once, twice, and Yates let go with a yelp as blood coursed from his nose. Enraged, Yates drove his boot into Vin's side, delighting at the tracker's gasps. Yates fell on top of Vin and they wrestled for the gun; more blood colored the water, and Vin realized his wounds were opening again. Yates realized it too – he knew Vin had been badly injured by Dark Sun – and increased the fury of his attack, eager to cause his enemy as much pain as possible.  
  
Vin drove his fist across Yates' face, and for a moment Yates was driven off. Vin stumbled to his feet and gulped for air, his clothing soaked with blood and water. His chest felt as if it had been torn open; he could feel the warm blood mixing with the cold water as it dripped from his body. Damn, he thought vaguely, Nathan is gonna kill me.  
  
Yates came at him again; Vin slugged him across the face with the butt of his rifle. As Yates gasped and staggered back, Vin tried to lift the rifle and fire, but the exhausting agony of his wounds slowed him to an alarming degree. Before he could aim and fire, Yates grabbed Vin by the shoulder and drove his fist as hard as he could into Vin's gut. Vin doubled over, stunned, and they fell back into the water, Yates driving his fist repeatedly into every wound he could find.   
  
The gun drifted from Vin's grasp; Yates ignored it, preferring to prolong his enemy's suffering rather than end it with a quick gunshot. Vin fought valiantly, but the weakness from the pain and the loss of blood overwhelmed his spirit. Unconsciousness loomed, and as Vin spun into agonized darkness an unutterable feeling of frustration consumed him.   
  
He'd really hoped to die a free man.   
  
  
  
Chris seethed as he peered through the smoke and the trees. Every time he had tried to make a break for it, the hill had exploded with gunfire, keeping him pinned down. Three attempts had left him with numerous grazes and cuts from the flying lead, including a nasty gash along his cheek.  
  
Rage tore through him as he gripped his gun and stared at the hill. Damn them, he thought, they've kept me here long enough.  
  
"I'm goin', Buck," he said, checking his gun to make sure it was fully loaded.  
  
"Well they already near killed ya three times, reckon they gotta be tired of shootin' at ya," Buck replied. "You go on an' help Vin, we'll cover ya."   
  
Chris nodded and took a deep breath.  
  
"JD!" Buck yelled. "Nathan!"  
  
After a moment, JD's face appeared from behind the wagon. There seemed to be no sign of Nathan. A horrible dread clutched at Chris's heart, but he forced it aside, concentrating on the moment. If need be, he would grieve later.  
  
JD nodded to Buck; he understood.  
  
"Go on now," Buck muttered, "an' good luck."  
  
Chris gripped his guns tightly, ducked down, then leaped to his feet and started running.  
  
The hail of bullets returned; Chris felt the breeze as they whizzed by him and heard the hum as they ripped the air. He had gone ten feet when a bullet tore into his right leg; he stumbled, cried out, but kept going even as the blood began to flow. The pain was blinding, but so was his rage; he returned the fire, with interest, until he was safely under the cover of the woods.  
  
He continued to run, despite the agony of his wounded leg which tortured him with every step. He could hear the rushing water of the river and hurried towards it, ignoring the pain and everything else save the determination to find Vin and Yates.   
  
There was a crashing behind him, and he whirled and saw a huge form descending the hill firing at him, a big man in convict's clothes with a bald head and a bushy black beard. Chris whipped around, fired his gun; the man lurched, uttered a curse, and dropped to the ground. By the time the man's blood began staining the hot rocks, Chris was on his way to the edge of the river.   
  
  
  
Trent shook his head, trying to get the sweat out of his eyes as he worked at freeing his hands. It felt as if he'd been sawing those ropes for hours, they must be cut by now. He glanced up from time to time at the battle, but his only interest in it was whether anyone was watching him. So far, no one was.  
  
Finally he heard a muffled rip, and the ropes fell away. Finally! he breathed, bringing his aching arms forward and rubbing his bloodied wrists. He looked around quickly; the horses were near, and he was still ignored. Very slowly he began to creep towards the nearest horse, his keen eyes searching the saddlebags for any signs of weapons.  
  
"Hey! HEY! Buck! Look!" It was that kid's voice.  
  
Trent winced and thought *Oh shit!*  
  
Bullets began to fly around him; he didn't look back, but raced to the closest horse, withdrawing a hidden knife from his coat as he did so. Cutting the beast's tether, he clambered onto the saddle, hanging over the side away from the deadly missiles. Kicking the animal into a run, he pounded away, skirting the camp in a wide circle as he headed out towards the desert. Mexico beckoned; his comrades would just have to fend for themselves.  
  
Trent, however, did not want to leave just yet; there was one former friend who badly needed to be taught a lesson. Once he was far away enough to be safe, Trent righted himself in the saddle, palmed the knife, and began to ride back around the perimeter of the battle. They'd put her somewhere safe, he figured.  
  
Just not safe enough.  
  
  
  
Chris felt his fury mount with every step he took as he pounded down the rocky pathway towards the river. His leg throbbed with agony, and he could feel the blood flowing down his pants leg, the warm stickiness gluing the wet fabric to his skin. Such anguish would have felled another man, but Chris Larabee was transported by rage, and his mind saw only a single purpose: to find Yates and preserve Vin's only chance at freedom.  
  
He reached the end of the path and looked around, panting. The river ran before him, and it only took a moment for those sharp green eyes to find who he was looking for. Horror consumed him as he recognized Yates half – dragging a limp, bloodied figure towards the falls. And the still figure was Vin.  
  
For a moment Chris couldn't move, too transfixed by fury to twitch so much as a muscle. Heart pounding, eyes wide with rage, he brought up his gun and took several steps towards the riverbank.  
  
"YATES!" he cried.  
  
Yates stopped and turned, and Chris was satisfied at the fear which was plainly written on the criminal's face.  
  
The gun exploded twice.  
  
Yates released Vin and cried out as he collapsed into the water, blood flowing from the wounds in his legs. He was a few feet from the drop yet, and sat in the shallow water clutching at his injuries as Chris plunged into the river and sliced through the current towards him.  
  
Then in the midst of his agony, Yates began to laugh.  
  
"You're too late, Larabee," he chuckled. "Tanner's dead."  
  
For one hellish moment, Chris thought it was true. As he leaned over his friend's still form, half–immersed in the reddening water, he saw how pale Vin was, and how much blood was seeping from his reopened wounds, and thought that his soul brother had to be gone. With a splash he knelt in the water, frantic with despair as he eased Vin's boneless body upright against a nearby rock.   
  
"Vin," he choked, grasping the tracker's arm, "Dammit, c'mon now. Vin!"  
  
After what seemed like an eternity, Vin groaned and coughed a little. He remained unconscious, but there was enough Tanner in him to continue to fight.  
  
Chris gasped and bowed his head as relief swept over him; Vin was in a bad way but was alive. There was still a chance.  
  
He raised his eyes and turned to Yates, rising very slowly as he aimed his weapon at the wounded outlaw. The anger returned, hotter now and more passionate: Yates had almost killed Vin, and for that Chris would show him no mercy.  
  
"Looks like you lost again, Yates," he said in a deadly whisper. "Now get up, you worthless piece of dog shit."   
  
Yates' expression was serious now, and his small eyes were ablaze with fear. Slowly and carefully he stood; the wounds in his legs were painful but not too debilitating.  
  
"You ain't gonna kill me," Yates said with a halfhearted grin.   
  
Chris's smile was wide and vicious. "No, I ain't. But if you try any more crap, you're gonna *wish* I killed you. An' I keep my promises. Now come on."  
  
Yates watched Chris closely, then took a step. With a loud, anguished cry he sank to the ground, clutching at his bleeding legs. Startled, Chris watched as Yates fell back into the flowing water, but as Yates fell to his knees he reached out, wrapped both arms around Chris's legs and pulled the gunslinger down as well.  
  
Chris landed on his back, the force of the fall stunning him for an instant. He felt Yates making a grab for the gun, and squeezed the trigger to fend him off; it fired, the noise resounding in Chris's ears. He felt Yates lurch and heard him curse, but a moment later the world spun again as a fist crashed across Chris's jaw. Chris shook his head to clear it, blinking the water from his eyes as he looked around for his quarry.   
  
As Chris's vision cleared, he saw that Yates had gotten a hold of Vin again and was dragging him once more towards the falls. Despite the wounds, despite the warnings, despite everything, Yates was still trying to kill the only man whom Chris felt he could truly call brother.   
  
With a cry of pure fury, Chris sprang from the water and hurtled towards his enemy, wrapping him in his arms as he pulled him down into the river. Chris was beyond reason now, completely overwhelmed by the desire to avenge Vin. Yates struggled, but it was a losing battle; nothing could halt Chris's rage as he grabbed Yates by the collar and sent his fist crashing into the criminal's face. Shooting was too good for him; Chris wanted him to bleed and suffer, as he had made Vin bleed and suffer. Nothing else mattered.  
  
Yates clawed at the iron fingers which were clamped around his throat, trying to get away. They were close to the edge of the drop now, the water running quickly by to crash down on the rocks some thirty feet below. Yates twisted, gulped, and flailed his legs around trying to find a way to escape his predicament, and in doing so he toppled over the edge of the falls.  
  
Chris gasped as Yates went over the drop, the heavy body dangling above the deadly rocks as water poured around him. The only thing saving him was Chris's grip around his throat; there were no protruding rocks nearby for him to grab on to. Now Yates was scrabbling madly, trying to grab onto Chris's slick black clothing for support as his legs swung free above the lethal drop.  
  
The strength of the current was carrying them both over; Chris had little to brace himself on against the rush of the water. With one hand he grabbed Yates' shoulder to keep him from going over, but he felt himself being pushed by the water closer to the brink. He could not stay in this position for long.  
  
He looked down at Yates, gritting his teeth as the anger flowed through him again. Vin was behind him, badly injured, possibly dying, because of this man. Yates' laughter echoed in his mind again; this bastard was glad that he had hurt Vin, would have killed him if he'd had the chance. Chris would have had to suffer another mortal wound to his spirit, and Yates would have been happy about it.   
  
The familiar, deadly urge came over him again as he stared down at Yates' despicable, cringing form. Men like this were useless to the world, he should kill him now while he had the chance and save everyone a lot of grief. It would feel so good to end this miserable bastard's life –   
  
– as he had ended Eli Joe's.  
  
Chris started, the burning desire to kill Yates abruptly meeting an equal and opposite force. Suddenly it was Eli, not Yates, dangling above oblivion, Eli whose life Chris held in his hand. Chris had fought this battle before, on the rooftops of Four Corners; it was his bullet that sent the bandit to his death. The killing rage of the past still lived within him, was telling him right now to let Yates drop to his death, and good riddance. The question returned as he contemplated that sweet, lethal urge, so well known in the dark days of his past:  
  
*Is this still who I am?*  
  
Chris felt himself pulled closer to the edge of the waterfall by the rushing water; it would be hard to pull Yates up now, easier to release him. So much easier.  
  
But as the thoughts swirled around his mind, others joined them; he was no longer fighting this battle for himself alone. He had the welfare of others to consider; Vin's only chance for freedom would be gone forever if Yates died. He could kill Yates, and serve the demons screaming for blood in his mind; or allow him to live, and place the sacrifice on the altar of friendship and justice.  
  
Chris glared at Yates, his fingers tightening around the man's throat and shoulder. His green eyes were wide, his teeth gritted in a furious snarl.  
  
*Is this still who I am?*  
  
He took a few deep breaths, his body numb from the pain and the constant battering force of the cascading water.  
  
And began to haul Yates back up over the edge.  
  
Yates looked confused as Chris pulled him up. "You're savin' my life?" he sputtered as the water poured into his face.  
  
Chris's teeth were clenched with effort; Yates was not light, and Chris was wounded and beginning to feel the effects of the recent stress. "Shut up an' hang on," was all he could manage, his eyes blazing with hatred.   
  
Yates peered at him sharply, glanced below him, then looked back up, his eyes intense.  
  
"No offense, Larabee," he growled, "but I'd rather take my chances than owe my life to you."  
  
His fist flew out, catching Chris full on the jaw. Chris reeled back, his grip on Yate's slippery clothes loosened; another, more vicious punch, and horror flooded him as he lost his grip entirely. He heard Yates yell as he toppled over the edge, quickly shook his head to clear it and scrambled to the lip of the waterfall, peering down anxiously.  
  
"Yates!" he screamed; God no, God it can't end like this. "YATES!"  
  
Below him there was only water, churning into a massive white foam which obscured everything beneath it. A large, bloody body, not Yates, bumped languidly against the sharp rocks as it bobbed and tumbled in the boiling current.  
  
Chris cried out again, more out of anger and keen frustration than anything else. But there was no sign of Yates.  
  
Chris slumped against the rocks, exhaustion swamping his spirit. After a few moments he lifted his head; he'd go down, look for him, there had to be something – even if it was just proof that he was dead –   
  
A groan from behind him ended that thought before it ever truly formed.  
  
Chris gasped and sat up, moving back now from the edge of the waterfall. Vin was stirring now, scowling as he tried to open his eyes. Blood and water soaked every visible inch.  
  
"Easy there," Chris rasped as he crouched by Vin's side, taking hold of one shoulder to keep him from sliding over into the water.  
  
Vin took a few deep breaths, but his eyes were still closed. "Chris? Wha...happened?"  
  
Chris glanced at the waterfall; he dreaded telling Vin that the only man who could have freed him was now probably dead.  
  
"Just a little dust–up," he replied. "It's over now."  
  
"Ughh..." Vin gagged and coughed, his blue eyes blinking open and squinting against the harsh desert sun. "Aw – hell, Chris, you...look like shit."  
  
Chris wiped at his nose and mouth, not surprised to find blood on his hand when he brought it away.  
  
"Yates?" Vin asked, his eyes widening a little as he looked around. "He get away?"  
  
Chris sighed and thought, Dammit! "Went over the edge. I tried to stop 'im, but he–didn't like that idea too much."  
  
Vin didn't seem too surprised, but he let out an exasperated groan and leaned back against the rock, closing his eyes again. "Damn that son of a bitch t'hell," he moaned in a bitter whisper. Then his eyes opened and he looked at Chris. "Is he dead?"  
  
Chris shrugged a little. "Can't rightly say. But you're gonna be if we don't get you back t'Nathan."  
  
The gunslinger stood, grimacing against every painful jolt that coursed through his weary body. The excitement over, he was now feeling very tired and in a great deal of pain. The wound on his leg was still bleeding, but he tried to ignore the burning anguish as he helped Vin to his feet.  
  
"Can you make it?" Chris gasped, just before his own legs buckled a bit.  
  
Vin chuckled a little despite the pain in his blue eyes. "Reckon we'll just drag each other along, pard."  
  
He gasped again, his eyes squeezing shut against the agony. Chris gripped him a little tighter, and together they slowly made their way away from the river. Chris threw one last, rueful glance at the rushing waters, then helped Vin climb the path that would lead them back home. There would be time for regrets later.  
  
  
  
The camp lay silent for the moment, smoke drifting lazily in the early afternoon sun as the last echoes of gunfire faded away. Josiah squinted as he palmed his gun, the weapon hot from use.  
  
"Calm before the storm," he muttered, and began to reload. Glancing behind him at Pony, he said, "How you both doin'?"  
  
Pony was crouching over Ezra's bleeding form, one hand on his chest as she looked around anxiously. "Still breathin'," was her reply. "Best look out, mister, they'll be comin' out of the hills soon."  
  
Josiah nodded as he snapped his gun closed. "That's what I figured," he said in a voice laden with weary experience.  
  
Ezra stirred a little and groaned, a cough struggling to escape his parched throat. Pony quickly and gently placed a soothing hand on his hair, her sharp eyes still darting about for any signs of danger.  
  
"Hush now," she said in worried tones as he blinked his eyes open and looked around. Josiah crouched low behind the rock as he crept over to Ezra's side, his heart aching with sorrow at his comrade's plight.   
  
For a few moments Ezra seemed unable to see where he was. Finally he looked up at Josiah and frowned, puzzled.  
  
"Wha – " he began, before coughing strangled his speech.  
  
Pony swiftly stroked his hair, trying to calm him, as Josiah placed a steadying hand on Ezra's shoulder.  
  
"Just another minor situation," Josiah assured him, trying to sound optimistic even though he had no clear idea how things were going. Now that he had a moment to truly look at Ezra, he felt his gut turn at the extent of the gambler's wounds. He looked as if he'd been attacked by a mountain cat, but the cuts were so clean, so precise. An animal had done this, but it was clearly of the human variety.  
  
Ezra coughed again, groaned, and slid once more into restless unconsciousness.  
  
Josiah lifted pain–filled eyes to Pony and softly asked, "What happened to him?"  
  
She gave a very short, bitter laugh. "Oh, like you care all of a sudden?"  
  
He stared at her, taken aback.  
  
"Where were you all when your givin' a damn woulda mattered?" she went on, her eyes snapping.  
  
There was a pause, then Josiah dropped his gaze and drew a slow, sad breath. When he looked again at Pony it was with blue eyes full of regret. "Trust me, miss, we never meant to–UHNN!"  
  
The preacher's wordrs were brutally cut off as something heavy suddenly jumped on him from above. A young and very strong man, Josiah realized as they fell struggling, who quickly used his momentum to slam the preacher to the ground. Josiah lifted his gun to fire, but before he could pull the trigger the young man raised his arm and smashed a hard object straight across Josiah's temple. Everything plunged into darkness, and the last sound echoing in Josiah's consciousness was the young girl's surprised scream.  
  
  
  
Pony's eyes went wide as she saw Trent fall onto the preacher and begin to beat him senseless. Damn, she screamed inside, looking around for a weapon, anything, knowing Trent would kill her for what she had done to him. But the only weapon in sight was the preacher man's gun, and that was now being lifted from his limp grasp by the triumphantly grinning Trent.  
  
"Well," Trent panted as he calmly walked over to where Pony bent protectively over Ezra's half–conscious form, tossing away the large rock he'd used to knock out Josiah, "if it ain't the little traitor bitch. What the hell did you think you were doin', gal?"  
  
Pony glared at him, not moving. "Just tired of that life was all, Trent."  
  
Trent laughed, his fingers clutching the gun convulsively. "If you're tired of life, Pony, I'll take care of that for you. An' Standish an' this big feller here, they'll be joinin' you. Did you think you could cross us an' get away with it?"  
  
He reached down and grabbed her arm, dragging her off Ezra and flinging her into the dirt a few feet away, his hand maintaining an iron grip on her.  
  
"What got into you, Pony?" Trent yelled as he shook her, the dust rising around them in a billowing golden cloud. "You go crazy or somethin'?"  
  
"Dammit, Trent, get off me!" Pony shrieked, trying to twist out of his grip.  
  
"It was that damn lawman Standish, wasn't it?" Trent demanded, ignoring her curses and kicks. "Bet he gave you some bullshit story about findin' a better life. There ain't no better life for folks like us, Pony. You were just too stupid t'see it, that's all."   
  
He reared back and gave her a solid slap which sent her tumbling to the ground. As she fell he jammed the gun in his belt and set himself to leap on top of her, only to be stopped as she drove her foot into his groin with one vicious kick.  
  
Trent collapsed to his knees, the gun toppling from his belt onto the dirt. Seizing her chance, Pony attacked him, her hands clawing at his throat as she knocked him completely to the ground. The rage and despair she had endured for too long released itself in a flood, and focused its power on the man who sought to end her life before it had a chance to begin.  
  
  
  
Ezra came to with a moan, the distant noise of violent struggle rousing him from his uneasy stupor. Confused memories darted about his mind, unwilling to be caught and assembled into coherency. Battling against the pain, he forced open his eyes, desperate to know what the hell was going on.  
  
The first thing that met his dry, aching eyes was the sight of two dust–covered figures locked in what looked to be mortal combat. Ezra blinked and struggled to sit up, alarmed as he recognized the contestants: Pony and that vicious kid with the top hat, Trent. As his head cleared he glanced around anxiously, his gaze finally settling on Josiah's limp form lying nearby.  
  
"Josiah," he tried to say, but the noise was little more than a whisper as it escaped his parched throat. My Lord, Ezra thought as fear burned through him, is he dead? Grunting against the agony that roared through his wracked body, Ezra crawled closer to his friend's still form as quickly as he could. As he drew near he saw Josiah's dusty shirt rise and fall with an assuring rhythm; he closed his eyes and expelled a ragged breath of relief. Josiah was alive. But there was another life whose fate was still in danger.   
  
Ezra quickly turned his attention to the bitter struggle being carried out not far from where he crouched by Josiah's side. Pony seemed to be holding her own, but Trent was returning blow for blow, and the outcome of the contest was still uncertain. Ezra gritted his teeth, furious at the thought that Pony's life might be ended just as it was about to be saved.  
  
He roused himself, ignoring the anguish of torn skin and aching bruises as he quickly searched Josiah's holster; no gun. He sat up, fighting the dizziness which assailed him, the green eyes keenly searching for any signs of the weapon. Finally he saw it, its bright barrel winking at him from where it lay in the dust a few yards away. Pony and Trent's struggles had carried them a good twenty feet from where Ezra lay; Pony had no chance to get her hands on the weapon without Trent noticing. But Ezra did – if he could only summon the strength to reach the gun in time.   
  
  
  
Pony clenched her teeth as Trent slammed her up against the rock, pain shooting through her body. The look in the young man's eyes was wild, almost demonic in its fury.  
  
"You're puttin' up a good fight, gal," Trent admitted, panting as he licked the blood from his lips, one hand around Pony's throat as he held her pinned against the rock. "I gotta admit I'm kinda enjoyin' this. You're a hell of a wildcat when your blood's up."  
  
"You'll find out how wild if you don't back off, Trent," Pony snarled, her bloodied fingers clawing at Trent's imprisoning hand. The other hand shot out with lightning speed and punched Trent squarely in the windpipe. The force of the blow caused him to gag, and his hold was weakened enough for her to break free. Gasping, he caught her as she twisted from his grasp; she seized his arm, burying her teeth in the exposed flesh as they both spun to the ground.   
  
Trent yowled with pain, trying to pull his arm free; Pony maintained a firm grip long enough to draw blood. He lay on his back now, her smaller form on top of him; with his free hand he grabbed her short brown hair, yanking and tearing on it until she released him. They grappled in the dust, Pony trying to break free, Trent just as determined to hold her back.  
  
"Just let me go, Trent!" she gasped as they fought, covered in blood and dust.  
  
Trent laughed, his face betraying an animal-like excitement. "Forget it, Pony," he shouted, resentment and anger dripping from every word, "you had your chance – you wanted t'join the law against us, well now you can die with 'em too!"  
  
He grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back, and as much as she hated to, she cried out from the pain.  
  
  
Pony's cry seared through Ezra's heart; he had to hurry, and he had no strength to hurry with. It had cost him everything just to make what little progress he had; but the gun was nearing his grasp, and Trent hadn't seen him yet. Just a little more work to do and he would have the gun, he promised his exhausted body – then Trent would be subdued or dead, Pony would be safe, and he could rest...  
  
Gritting his teeth, Ezra pulled himself along a few more inches; the gun was almost within his grasp. He paused and gasped as an overwhelming sensation of weakness crashed over him; the world tilted and began to spin, and he felt himself sliding towards the brink of oblivion. It was too much, he realized; he was going to pass out.  
  
With every ounce of strength Ezra fought the encroaching darkness, his eyes riveted on the gun quietly gleaming only a few feet away. He could not fail Pony now, or Josiah. He had no doubt that if Trent prevailed, the young man would not allow any of them to live. The seven would be diminished, and therefore destroyed. He could not allow that, as long as there was anything he could do to prevent it.  
  
Another cry from Pony reached his ears; Ezra looked up to see her struggling in Trent's arms as the young man dragged both of them to their knees. Trent had gotten a hold of both her arms and was twisting them brutally behind her back. Ezra licked his lips; no time to lose. Every muscle screamed as he pulled himself closer to the gun, his strength now derived solely from a sheer force of will. His hand splayed out towards the weapon, the dusty fingers groping in the hot dirt. One fingertip brushed the barrel; Ezra gasped and managed one last great surge of effort. Almost there –   
  
His hand closed around the gun's warm grip.  
  
Panting and covered with sweat, Ezra lifted the gun carefully – it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds – and pointed it at Trent, his green eyes blazing.  
  
"I believe the young lady asked you to let her go," he announced in as clear a voice as he could manage.  
  
Trent's head snapped up, a stunned expression on his dirty, bloodied face. He looked down at his belt, realized what had happened, and cursed. Pony looked just as surprised.  
  
"Ezra!" she cried, then cried out with pain as Trent grabbed her by the hair and tightened his grip on her arm.  
  
"Shoot if ya want, Standish," he rasped, pulling them both around until he was shielded by Pony's slender form. "You'll just kill her an' save me the trouble!"  
  
Ezra blinked, feeling himself beginning to fade from the recent horrific exertion. With stern resolution, he fought to clear his mind and steady his aim. "I assure you, sir," he panted, his voice firm but weary, "that if I aim for you, it will be you who gets the bullet. Let her go."  
  
"Dammit, Trent, do what he says!" Pony urged him as she writhed in his grip, trying to break free.  
  
Trent jerked her arm back even tighter with a grunt, his teeth clenched with rage. "Sure will, darlin'," he growled, his fingernails digging into her scalp, "right after I break your Goddamned neck."  
  
Trent's movements were a blur as he gripped Pony in a lethal pose, poised to snap her neck with one quick pull.  
  
Pony choked out a cry and struggled, determined to fight to the last.  
  
Ezra peered through dimming eyes, praying for one good shot before oblivion could claim him.  
  
And fired the gun.  
  
  
  
Pony heard the angry explosion of the firearm, felt the bullet's heat and heard its fatal music as it sped by her ear. Everything seemed to stop, frozen for a terrifying, unreal eternity. Then she heard Trent cough and gurgle, felt his grip tighten on her in a final, uncontrollable spasm. She was pulled down to the ground as he fell, still locked in his embrace, his arms now clutching and twisting convulsively as the mind which controlled them began to die.  
  
She gasped, disentangling herself from the grasping body's death throes, one glance at Trent's face revealing the bloody bullet hole just above his left eye. Horrified, she tumbled into the dust and crawled quickly to Ezra's side, watching as Trent's body breathed its last in the dust alone, its sightless eyes staring at the blazing sun.   
  
Trembling violently and soaked with sweat, Pony bent over Ezra. The gambler had slumped to the ground onto his side as soon as the bullet had left the chamber, and with his closed eyes and white skin looked almost as dead as Trent. The gun lay nearby where it had fallen from his now–limp grasp. She shook him gently.  
  
"Ezra, hey! Ezra?" she breathed, panting desperately for air, and amazed at how weak her own voice sounded.  
  
There was a small noise as Ezra drew in a slight, quick breath; his eyes remained closed, but she heard him whisper, "Safe?"  
  
She looked back at Trent's contorted form. "Yeah, you got 'im right in the head. God, Ezra..."  
  
She heard him breathe what sounded like a relieved sigh; then, without opening his eyes or moving, she made out the faint word, "Josiah?"  
  
Pony looked over to the large man under the rock, and from where she was she could tell he was still breathing, and moving a bit.  
  
"Still kickin'," she assured him. "He'll be around in a while. Looks like y'saved our skins, y'damn fool," she said as she turned back to him with a tearful smile.   
  
Ezra said nothing more, his face going slack as his exhausted body finally allowed itself to slip quietly into the soothing darkness.  
  
"Ezra?" she said softly, knowing that it was no use. With a sigh she picked up the gun, checked the empty chamber, and sat down to watch over the unconscious forms of Ezra and his friend.   
  
Weariness was overtaking her now as well, and she was still shaking from the beating she had recently endured. She had no idea how the fight was going, she realized, then came to the grim conclusion that it mattered little after all. If Hanley won, she would be killed; if Larabee won, well, she'd seen how other gangs treated prisoners. She'd probably be shot, or hung; Ezra was in no condition to stop them.   
  
She tried to prepare herself, and waited.   
  
  
Buck peered over the top of his sheltering boulder, uneasy over the silence which had fallen over the campsite. Smoke still hung lazily in the hot, still air, as if it were an interested observer of what might happen next. The young man swallowed and licked his lips, steeling his nerves as his blue eyes scanned the area.  
  
"Buck!"  
  
The gunslinger's head turned to his right, where the wagon lay a short distance away. JD was behind the wagon and leaning towards him, his own eyes glued to the hill watching for movement. Blood was seeping in scarlet blotches from beneath the bandage on his arm.  
  
"How you doin', JD?" Buck replied, wiping his forehead on his sleeve.  
  
JD nodded. "I'm all right, Buck. Long as I can shoot I can hold 'em off!"  
  
His friend laughed a little in admiration at such bravery; the kid sure had grit. "You keep doin' that, kid, an' we'll be just fine. Better get Nathan t'look at that arm."  
  
"Nathan ain't here, Buck."  
  
Buck looked up sharply, surprised. "What?"  
  
JD waved one gun behind him. "He went off that way, after that crazy Indian – lookin' guy that came after us. Should we go help 'im?"  
  
At that moment a shot rang out, cracking the rock Buck was crouched behind. He bent down lower, casting a worried glance at the hill, where the shot had come from.  
  
"It might be us who'll need helpin', kid," he replied. "Watch your back!"  
  
JD clutched his Colts and disappeared behind the wagon.  
  
Buck peered at the hill, ducking as more bullets whizzed past him. He could see them now, two figures moving down the hill towards them, sheltered by the rocks and trees covering the slope. Puffs of smoke announced their location, but Buck's bullets found no more success than those of his enemies', as the menacing shadows found quick protection after every shot.  
  
"They're on the slope!" he called to JD.  
  
"I got 'em!" came the quick response. Buck braced himself, knowing that they would not stay hidden for long.  
  
A thin figure dashed out from behind a split rock, firing at Buck as he ran to the next boulder. Buck drew a bead and fired, but the man was too quick, and the missile whistled harmlessly past him. He ducked back, realizing who his adversary was. Dang it all, he thought, it's Adams, or whatever his real name is, the old guy from the boarding house. The man who had left this aching bullet wound in Buck's left arm. Well, you got yourself a fight now, mister, Buck thought as he quickly reloaded. I couldn't catch you before this whole mess started, but by God I've got you now.  
  
After a few moments he peeped over the top if the rock, to see the old man doing the exact same thing not twenty feet away. Buck hid himself again, his sweat–slicked hand gripping his weapon; his opponent was older than Buck, but his enthusiasm and skill could not be discounted.  
  
There was more gunfire, but it was JD holding off the other gunman. Buck stood on his toes a little, trying to see how his friend was doing, but a shot from Adams sent him back to shelter again.  
  
Damn! Buck thought, anger coursing through him. This guy's startin' to be a *real* pain.  
  
Buck rose as close to the top of the rock as he dared, poised to fire if necessary. "You best give it up, Adams, or whoever the hell you are!" he shouted.  
  
"Take your own advice, sonny!" was the bitter reply, along with another shot.  
  
Buck turned his head away from the shower of dust and rocky splinters which erupted from the bullet's impact. When the deluge was over, he straightened, venturing once again to peer over the rock.  
  
"Look, mister, don't be an ol' fool!" he called. "You want t'die in jail?"  
  
Contemptuous laughter stirred the sulfur–laden air. "Beats gettin' licked by a pup like you!"  
  
Buck's shoulders sagged; it figured he'd be one of those go–out–in–a–blaze–of–glory types. Why was it that talking sense to these sorts of people never worked?  
  
More gunfire; Buck returned it as Adams ran from rock to rock, ducking and firing swiftly as he got closer to Buck's refuge. Buck pursed his lips with each exchange; soon he would be close enough for things to get ugly. Buck felt an instinctual hesitation at hurting the old man, but he also had an intense desire to survive the fight.   
  
If only he could get the guy to give up...  
  
Adams was only ten feet away now, and Buck could hear him replenishing his weapon. If there was a time to avoid further bloodshed, it was now.  
  
"Look, mister," Buck shouted, "I don't want t'have to kill you, even if you did bust my wing."  
  
He heard Adams snort. "Why, 'cause I'm old? Save your pity for yourself, Wilmington. I been shootin' at cocky young Yankees like you for twice your lifetime, an' I'm ready to keep on fightin'."  
  
Buck sighed. "Fightin' for what, Adams?" Buck yelled, still behind the rock. "There ain't nothin' here worth givin' your life for. We can take you in, probably get the Judge t'go easy on ya – that's gotta be better than gettin' a bullet in the gut an' dyin' in the dust."  
  
Silence. Buck strained to listen; he couldn't tell if Adams was actually listening to him, or getting ready to strike. With extreme caution he cocked his weapon and very slowly rose, lifting his head to look over the rock at where his enemy was hiding.  
  
A Rebel yell pierced the air, and Adams sprang into view, screaming with rage as he charged at Buck with his gun blazing. Buck dropped back behind the rock, falling onto his side as he fired around the boulder. One bullet creased Adams' side; he faltered but came on. By the time he reached Buck, his chamber was firing empty, but with undaunted rage he fell on Buck with a cry and began clubbing the gunslinger with the weapon.  
  
Blood spattered Buck's face as the attack opened a few small wounds. Adams was frantic now, cursing Buck's youth loudly as he clawed at him in blind, jealous fury, claiming he could still take him on despite his years. His wrath gave him some strength, and Buck was surprised by how much of a struggle the old man could put up; but there was only one way the fight could now end, and Buck knew it wouldn't be long in coming.  
  
At the first sign of Adams' weakening, Buck grasped the swinging gun firmly and wrenched it out of his opponent's grip. As the gun was hurled away, Adams lost none of his determination as he continued to kick and punch at Buck. But his efforts were becoming less animated, his sweat – soaked face showing the strains of exertion. Buck watched him carefully, not wanting to really hurt him, but not wanting to get a nasty surprise either. Soon Adams was panting heavily, and Buck pushed him away and pointed his gun at the old man's head.  
  
"All right now," Buck panted, getting to his feet. "Had enough?"  
  
Adams lay gasping for breath, drenched in sweat as he clutched weakly at the hot dirt. He said nothing, gazing up at Buck with hate–filled eyes.  
  
Buck took a step closer. "Hey? You give? C'mon now, I just want this to be over with. I ain't gonna shoot you."  
  
Adams stared at him, his breathing ragged and choked. He gasped and began to shake violently, screwing his eyes shut as he slumped back to the ground in an attitude of utter defeat. As the old man began to beat the ground weakly with his trembling fists, Buck realized that his opponent was coming apart, and lowered his weapon a little. Adams no longer seemed interested in attacking Buck as he lay curled on the ground, crushed by his defeat.  
  
A gunshot rang out in the hills nearby. Startled, Buck looked up and noticed JD was gone. After a few anxious moments he saw the young man coming towards him out of the sparse trees, looking behind him from time to time.  
  
"You all right, kid?" Buck asked quickly. JD nodded, his hazel eyes studying Adams' quivering from with something close to sympathy.  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine, Buck," JD replied, panting and still looking at Adams. "There was one more guy in the hills, but he wouldn't give up his guns. He kept comin' at me, so..." JD juggled one of his Colts, an uncomfortable look in his eye. He shook it off, or tried to, and nodded sadly at Adams' quivering, incoherent form. "So, uh, is everything okay here?"  
  
Buck sighed and ran one hand through his sweat–soaked black hair.  
  
"It's under control, JD. Whether it's okay is another question."  
  
  
Nathan was running, his keen eyes fixed on the slender figure some distance ahead of him. For quite a while now he had been following the youth, waiting for him to tire as the bleeding wound in his side took its toll. But to Nathan's amazement, he had kept up a steady pace, dodging around trees and rocks, trying to lose the healer as they ran deeper into the wilderness.  
  
Nathan gripped his gun as he ran, ready for anything, but so far the young man had seemed interested only in escape. At any time it would have been easy enough for Nathan to shoot him, but his healer's instinct would not allow it. He had seen the young man's eyes, the pain and despair burning in those mad depths. It was a lost soul he was chasing now, and he hated to give up while there was still a chance to save it. If only the kid would hold still and not try to kill him again –   
  
They were in a rocky area now, and Nathan realized he was running uphill. Looking ahead, he saw that the bloodied figure had stopped, and was watching Nathan as he approached. Nathan slowed to a walk, his gun up and cocked, his eyes watching for any threatening movement.  
  
With slow steps he drew nearer to the young man, who stood still as a statue staring at him, one arm clutching his blood–soaked shoulder. Nathan took quick stock of their surroundings – they were on a hill, its summit ending in a sharp, rocky drop just behind where the other man was standing. Faintly Nathan could hear the rush of the river; they must be above it, and pretty high up from the sound of it.  
  
He raised his eyes to where the young man stood, keeping his motions slow and careful. The wounded man was eying him with a completely passive expression, as if he made no connection between Nathan and the wound in his shoulder. But from where he stood, the healer could still see the confused agony in the other man's clear blue eyes. It was an ancient madness, similar to an affliction he'd often seen as a young slave, in the faces of those whose tortures had driven them to agonized despair.  
  
"Okay," Nathan said very slowly, when he was about ten feet from the young man, "looks like you gotta stop runnin' now, huh?"  
  
The other man stared at him, the wind tugging at his long blonde hair.  
  
"Look here," Nathan continued carefully, extending one hand while keeping his gun trained on him with the other, "I know some things 'bout healin' folks, an' you look like you need that powerful bad."  
  
The blue eyes darted to the open hand, then back to Nathan, their sapphire depths confused.  
  
Nathan nodded; at least the kid was listening. "I seen folks got some bad things in their minds. They hear voices or get bad dreams."  
  
The young man shuddered violently and continued to stare at Nathan.  
  
"See, I bet you know what I'm talkin' about," the healer went on, encouraged. "Now I ain't trustin' you too much just yet, but if you come on with me maybe we can help you out."  
  
The young man said nothing, his eyes darting between the open hand and the gun as a strange trembling seized his body. Finally his eyes settled on the open hand, and Nathan waited while he stared at it wordlessly. After a few moments he lifted his eyes up to meet Nathan's, and the healer was struck to the bone over the confusion and anguish he saw there. His blank expression had changed to one of fear whose intensity Nathan had never seen on any other human face.  
  
Then, suddenly, the young man took a step back, his eyes still locked on Nathan, and was gone.  
  
Nathan was frozen for a moment, too startled to move. Then he rushed forward to the edge of the cliff, leaning over as carefully as he could. He heard a muffled crashing, but his view was blocked by trees and dead roots protruding from the cliff wall. Far below wound the river, but Nathan couldn't see where the young man had landed. Sadness filled his own soul as he finally stood back. What was there in his offer of help that so frightened the young man, to the point where taking his own life was better than accepting it?  
  
Well, he mused, at least whatever voices were torturing the poor boy were finally silent now. With weary movements he holstered his weapon and began the walk back to the campsite.   
  
  
  
Pony was growing tired of waiting, but she was even more frightened of what would happen when the waiting was over. For the hundredth time she looked down at Ezra, but he had not moved or made a sound since the fight. He still lay where he had fallen, curled on his side, eyes closed, his sweat – slicked skin pale against the angry red wounds covering him. He was still breathing, but it was very light, almost imperceptible, and more than once Pony thought he was dead. But he seemed too stubborn to die just yet.  
  
She cast a glance back at the campsite; there had been some gunfire, probably Lew and Gray finishing things off. Vaguely she wondered who had won, but it would matter little to her. There was no reason to think Larabee's gang was any different than her own.  
  
She coughed a bit and wiped the blood from her mouth. Her whole body ached, and she knew she needed to fix her wounds. If only she could get to the bag of supplies she always carried, but her horse was tethered with the others back at the campsite. Not much chance of getting to it without being shot by someone...  
  
The gunfire subsided. She shifted a little and glanced over to where Trent's horse was browsing on the dry vegetation. She could always make a break for it and ride away, but there was nowhere to go. Without supplies and water, she'd only be choosing a slow death over a quick one. And she was so damn tried of running.  
  
Besides, she thought as she looked down at Ezra, she didn't want to just leave him here. He might need her help – what if they tried to kill him? She'd seen men in gangs turn on each other and shoot those who could no longer pull their load. She couldn't do much to stop them but at least he wouldn't have to die alone.  
  
A loud groan reached her ears. She sat up quickly, but was disappointed to see that it was only that big fellow, Josiah, coming around. She swallowed – maybe now he'd try to finish her off – but stood her ground, ready to protect Ezra.  
  
"God Almighty," Josiah moaned, sitting up slowly and rubbing the side of his head. He blinked and looked around, and Pony tensed when she saw his blue eyes fall on her.  
  
But he only asked, "Lord! You all right, miss?"  
  
She coughed a little, trying to hide her surprise, and wiped at the blood on her face. "Oh, yeah. Just got knocked around a bit."  
  
Josiah took a deep breath and looked around at the churned–up dust and Trent's bloodied body. A sigh escaped his lips. "Guess he wouldn't listen to reason, huh?"  
  
Pony grunted. "Nope. Never could, really."  
  
"Mm," Josiah nodded, then glanced down at Ezra. He made a small move towards him. "Is he – "  
  
Pony inched a little closer to Ezra and glared at Josiah. "I ain't gonna let you hurt him, mister, just so you know."  
  
Those blue eyes widened at her, and Pony was startled to see surprise and sadness mingling in those azure depths. "You got my word I ain't gonna hurt him, Miss," Josiah finally said slowly. "Just want to make sure he's all right, is all."  
  
"Well, he ain't all right," Pony snapped. "An' it's no thanks to you an' them other men. You just about broke his heart."  
  
Pony expected the man to hit her, or start swearing like Hanley always did when something vexed him. But instead, this man just looked at her with those great big sad blue eyes and backed away, a heavy expression of sorrow settling on his face. Pony had never seen anybody look like that, except maybe her pa when her mother died. That's what this man's face looked like. It was a look of grief.  
  
Finally he nodded slowly, as if regret weighed him down. "I'm afraid that's the truth, Miss," he said, looking at Ezra, then at her with those sad eyes. "An' I can see you're takin' good care of my friend there, so I'll just leave you be. Maybe you can help him come back to us, an' then we can get all this worked out."  
  
With that, he sat back and pulled out his bandanna, dabbing at the small stream of blood trickling from the cut on his head and glancing back at the campsite.  
  
Pony felt overwhelmed with confusion. He didn't yell, or get mad. He might be one of those types that got real quiet, then went crazy, like Dark Sun. But he didn't seem to be that way. And the way he looked at Ezra, like he was all broken up inside over what had happened, that was unfamiliar to her as well. It was almost like he was really sorry for it. But maybe he was just pretending, to get her off guard.  
  
She looked at him through narrow eyes, suspicious. "What kinda game you playin' here, mister?"  
  
He looked at her, and appeared to be honestly confused. "Game?"  
  
"Josiah!"  
  
Pony gasped to herself at the sound of the shout, coiling up inside as someone else approached. The fact that it was that kid caused her to relax a bit, but her guard was still up. Now that the fight was over and she was a prisoner, anything could happen.  
  
He was running, covered with sweat and exhausted.   
  
"You all right, preacher?" JD asked as he got close.  
  
Josiah nodded as he stood. "Yeah, just a close call. Still not rightly sure what happened."  
  
"Everything's over back at the camp," JD announced. "Buck went to look for Chris an' Vin. How's Ezra?"  
  
They both looked at Ezra, and Josiah moved toward him. Pony scooted forward a little, shielding him and fixing them with a cold, menacing glare.  
  
Josiah read the warning in those brown eyes and held up his empty hands. "It's all right. We just want to know about our friend."  
  
Pony hesitated, studying their faces. This could all be a trick so they could get their hands on Ezra, but since they had guns and she didn't, they didn't need trickery to have their way. None of them had tried to shoot her yet, but that didn't mean they wouldn't. Still, it was probably stupid to make them mad.  
  
"All right," she said reluctantly, inching aside. "Just – I don't want him to get hurt no more."  
  
"Neither do we, miss, believe me," Josiah said as he moved forward and bent over Ezra.  
  
Pony watched sadly. *I'd like to believe you, mister,* she thought, *but I can't.*  
  
Her suspicion was soon mingled with surprise as she watched them gather around Ezra. The preacher touched his shoulder gently and called his name, trying to rouse him. And the kid, JD, he seemed to be the most busted up of all.  
  
The young girl was amazed at this. Of all of the men she'd ever ridden with, she had never seen any of them get so broken up over something like this. The wounded were usually shot, or patched up roughly, just enough so they could ride. And it was made perfectly clear that giving a damn about anyone else was dangerous. But these guys...Pony could only frown in puzzlement.   
  
"He's still alive," Josiah finally announced, "but he needs doctorin' mighty bad."  
  
"I'll find Nathan," JD said quickly, and ran off.  
  
As JD's pounding footsteps faded away, a gentler noise reached their ears. Ezra was moving a little, his eyes still closed. Josiah and Pony looked at each other, hope glimmering in their eyes, and the preacher leaned over the stirring form of his friend.  
  
"Ezra?"  
  
A sleepy grunt escaped Ezra's throat, and after a moment he managed to blink open his eyes, just a little. Squinting against the brightness and dust, Ezra seemed confused for a moment; then his green eyes cleared, and he turned them to rest on Josiah's anxious face.  
  
"Josiah," he whispered, a smile barely tugging at his dry lips. "Still...among the living, I see."  
  
"That makes two of us," Josiah replied in a soft, highly relieved tone, as he placed a steadying hand on Ezra's shoulder. "You just hang on now, we got things under control."  
  
"Hm." Ezra had stopped moving, but his eyes darted around fitfully. "Is Pony all right?"  
  
"I'm right here," she said, scooting into his line of vision. He looked at her carefully, then seemed to relax a bit, as if assured now that she was safe.  
  
"She's fine, Ezra, don't fret," Josiah promised, giving the girl a reassuring look. She shifted a little, unsure how to interpret it.  
  
Ezra winced against a stab of pain. "And the rest...of her comrades?"  
  
The preacher glanced back at the now–quiet camp and sighed. "Don't reckon they were as lucky." He looked back at Pony, and she read the sympathy in his blue eyes.  
  
"Don't be sorry about it, mister," she said quickly. "I sure ain't."  
  
Understanding flickered across the man's face, and he nodded. He bent his head down to check on Ezra, but the gambler's eyes had closed again, indicating that he had fallen once again into unconsciousness.   
  
Josiah rose, grimacing as his stiff, sore muscles protested the movement. "We best get Ezra back to camp," he said, and with great care lifted the injured gambler in his arms.  
  
Pony stood too, wiping her dirty hands on her even dirtier pants. Josiah glanced back at her, as if assuring himself that she was following him, then he turned and began walking swiftly back to the camp.   
  
She paused – it would be easy enough to make a break for it now, when they would all be occupied – but after a moment's thought she ran after Josiah. She had to make sure that Ezra was going to be all right, and she was becoming very curious about these friends of his as well.   
  
The hot dust swirled and sifted in their wake, drifting through the stifling air to settle gently on the twisted body of Trent. Pony threw him one last glance as she hurried away, then turned her eyes forward, leaving him and the life she had known behind.  
  
  
  
Chris gasped as he hauled his leg over a rough patch of the trail. It had been a long, hot walk back from the river, and he knew he and Vin weren't even halfway back yet. They had been moving slowly, supporting each other as they inched along, hobbled by wounds but too stubborn to give it up.   
  
His own head was spinning from the pain and blood loss, but his concern was more for Vin. It seemed each time he looked at the tracker, the younger man's skin was a little paler, his blue eyes more glazed.  
  
"Wanna rest a bit?" he asked, clutching Vin's shoulder; Vin looked about ready to fall over.  
  
Vin took a deep breath and nodded. "Reckon so, pard," he gasped, and they made their way to a large rock nearby, situated in the shade of a shallow stand of trees.  
  
Chris carefully eased Vin onto the rock, then sat beside him, exhausted. Both men sat panting for several minutes, without words, gulping water from their canteens.  
  
"God," Vin grimaced, clutching his ribs. "Feel like I been run over by a stampede." He looked up the trail, back towards the camp. "Wonder how the fight's goin'?"  
  
Chris listened carefully as he swallowed a mouthful of water. "Don't hear no gunfire. Maybe it's over."  
  
The tracker grunted. "Sure hope we won." He paused, still rubbing his ribs. "I owe ya one, pard, for comin' after me. You saved my life."  
  
Chris thought of Yates going over the falls, taking with him Vin's last chance of freedom. His expression hardened, but he said nothing.  
  
Footsteps caught their attention, and they both looked up to see Buck running down the rocky trail towards them. He was covered with dust and a little blood, but other than the wound in his arm, he appeared unhurt.  
  
"Hey!" he greeted his two friends. "God'lmighty, what happened?"  
  
"Later, Buck," Chris groaned, standing up very slowly. "Ain't much in the mood for stories right now."  
  
Buck glanced in the direction of the river. "Yates?"  
  
Chris looked at him somberly and shook his head.  
  
Buck sighed. "Damn," he spat, and holstered his gun. "And that other guy?"  
  
"Same," Vin replied, as he slid off the rock onto his feet with deliberate slowness. "How'd we do? Everyone all right?"  
  
"JD went to check on Josiah an' Ezra," was Buck's response. He sighed, his dirty, sweat – slicked face growing serious. Ezra wasn't lookin' too good, last time I saw im, but I reckon he's stubborn enough t'hang on. I passed Nathan on his way back to the camp. Guess he'll be patchin' up the lot of us."  
  
"He's gonna start chargin' if this keeps up," Chris said through clenched teeth as he steadied himself. "Any of Eli's gang survive the fight?"  
  
"Just an ol' man an' a gal," Buck replied. "They fought like hell, that's for sure."  
  
Chris nodded. "Hell's a pretty good word for it," he said, and with Buck's help, they resumed their walk back home.  



	6. Default Chapter Title

The campsite was quiet when Josiah, Ezra and Pony finally arrived. The smell of gunpowder still hung heavily in the air, its sharp stench almost overpowering. The shattered debris of rocks and trees lay strewn about the ground, indicating the ferocity of the battle. Here and there, small smears of blood on the rocks and ground marked the places where the guns' deadly missiles had found their targets.  
  
Pony glanced around, then saw a small figure huddled next to the wagon, one wrist handcuffed to the wagon wheel.  
  
"Gray!" she exclaimed, surprised, and went to him while Josiah lay Ezra carefully down on the softest–looking spot available.  
  
The old man didn't look at her as she ran up. She stopped a few feet from him and stared at him, puzzled. His clothes were torn and bloodied some, but he didn't look too badly hurt.  
  
"Hey, Gray, it's Pony," she prodded him, but there was no response. He continued to sit and stare morosely at nothing, an expression of disappointed anger etched into his dusty face.  
  
"Best leave 'im be for now, miss," Josiah advised her as he took off his jacket. With one swift move he shook it out, then folded it and slipped it beneath Ezra's head. "Reckon he's a bit wore out. Losin' the fight might've rattled him some, too."  
  
"Reckon so," Pony replied in an uncertain voice, moving back to where Josiah sat with Ezra. She crouched on the other side of Ezra, placing her hands on her knees as she looked him over. He was still unconscious, but the fact that he had come around once caused them both to hope he might wake up again.  
  
"You got time for that story now?" Josiah asked as he soaked a cloth from his canteen and began gently wiping the blood and dirt from Ezra's face with it.  
  
Pony frowned at him. "Story?"  
  
He looked up at her with patient eyes. ""Bout how you an' Ezra wound up together. We all thought he was headin' for St. Louis."  
  
Pony hesitated, unsure where to begin. As she thought about it, she heard some rustling in the trees nearby. She tensed, her weary nerves taut and apprehensive. A colored man appeared, someone Pony had never seen before, along with JD, and at the sight of Ezra they broke out into a run to where they all sat.  
  
"Think that'll have t'wait for now, mister," Pony muttered reluctantly. "He got like this tryin' to save your lives. That's all I got time to say right now."  
  
She wanted to tell them what happened and to keep asking questions, to find out why Ezra did this. But things were still too muddled and crowded with all of these new folks around, and she was still unsure how much to tell them. As the colored man joined them and began looking Ezra over with great concern, her instincts told her that now was not the time for questions. So she sat and watched, and wondered.  
  
  
  
Ezra felt himself being pulled out of the comforting darkness, and deeply resented it. He had no desire to return to the blinding sunlight and searing pain of the conscious world. It would be much better for him, he thought, not to have to feel the small, sharp rocks digging into his back, or the hot desert air drying out what little moisture still clung to his lips.  
  
But he had to resign himself to the situation as he slowly emerged from the soothing black void. And it wasn't all bad: someone was there, wiping at his burning skin with a cool cloth. The water against his dry, torn skin felt wonderful, and eased his reemergence to the land of the living.   
  
His fuzzy mind began to clear, and as he did not have the strength yet to open his eyes or talk, he instead tried to remember what was happening. They had won the fight, thank God. Pony was all right, so were Josiah, JD and Buck. With any luck, the others had survived as well.  
  
Ezra realized an explanation for his appearance would be asked of him sooner or later. He had to be ready. He could say he simply got sidetracked, assuming Pony hadn't told them already what happened.  
  
But then, he mused in a sleepy haze as the soothing cloth continued to wipe away the blood and dirt, perhaps the truth would be better. But could he bring himself to confess such a private matter to them? His pain over their betrayal was his own affair. But that pain was lesser now, almost gone, replaced by a more powerful willingness to confirm their bond rather than sever it. JD had said he didn't trust them enough to let them know when he needed help. Could he start now?  
  
The noise of shouts reached his ears, and the thudding of approaching footsteps. The cloth disappeared, and other hands took over, carefully pulling aside his stiff, bloodied cloths. One of his eyelids was gently pulled open, and he blinked against the blazing daylight, even though he was in the shade. A blurry form was bending over him, its indistinct shape quickly collecting itself as his squinting eyes adjusted to the light.  
  
It was Nathan.  
  
Ezra lay still, not listening as he heard Nathan's voice rattle off reassuring words. He barely felt the healer's quick movements as he looked over the worst of Ezra's many wounds. An overwhelmingly strong tide of anger swept over him, the pain of Nathan's earlier betrayal rushing anew to his heart. He had heard Josiah and JD regret the pain they had caused Ezra, but Nathan...  
  
*Nathan said Ezra was just bein' stubborn*  
  
*Good thing you don't have that saloon no more, else you'd be fleecin' every man in town!*  
  
The old hurt filled Ezra's soul again; he was too weak to fight it off. His recent suffering had laid his emotions bare, and he could not control the trembling which seized his weary frame. Every angry word of their last conversation filled his mind; Nathan didn't apologize, he didn't sympathize with Ezra's misfortunes, or admit the part he played in them. He had only sat back smugly, practically gloating in his downfall.  
  
And now here he was, daring to put his hands on Ezra's person.  
  
Nathan must have noticed the change in Ezra's state. Ezra could see him look into his face, pretending to be concerned.  
  
"Ezra?" he heard him say. "Can you hear me?"  
  
Ezra could feel his eyes burning with anger, and he mustered enough enough strength to mutter in a sharp whisper, "Kindly...take your hands...OFF me!"  
  
  
  
The small group around Ezra started at the fury behind Ezra's feeble words.   
  
JD stood behind Nathan, his hazel eyes confused. "Nathan, is he – ?"  
  
Nathan leaned closer to Ezra, putting one hand gingerly on his shoulder. "Hey, take it easy, now – "  
  
To their surprise, Ezra's arms flew up, knocking Nathan's hand away. It fell quickly back, but the fire in Ezra's green eyes was unmistakable. The Southerner was incensed.  
  
"I will not...'take it easy'," he hissed, his breathing becoming labored, "and I will not consent...to being tended to...by a man who has no concern...for my well–being."  
  
"Ezra, what're you sayin'?" JD said in alarm. He looked to Josiah for help, but the preacher was only watching sadly and not moving.  
  
Nathan hesitated, his expression a tumbling mix of understanding, hurt and resentment. An angry response seemed to be on his lips, but he shook his head quickly as if to fling it aside.  
  
"Don't go talkin' nonsense, now," he said, reaching for him again.  
  
"NO!" Ezra cried, the steely tone of his voice stopping Nathan dead.  
  
The healer sighed with exasperation. "You'll die if you don't let me see to them wounds!"  
  
"No, he won't. I can take care of 'im."  
  
The groups eyes all turned to Pony in surprise. She stared back with calm strength as her hand tightened gently around Ezra's arm.  
  
"You know healin'?" Nathan asked.  
  
Pony nodded. "Course, someone had to stitch up the fellers. A lot of 'em got banged up worse'n this. If Ezra won't let you...if you need someone else to fix 'im up, I can do it. Just need the bag from my horse over yonder."  
  
There was quiet for a moment.  
  
"That all right with you, Ezra?" Josiah asked.  
  
Ezra's eyes flickered between Pony and Nathan. "Infinitely," he said firmly.  
  
"Nathan!"  
  
Buck's voice caught everyone's attention, and they all looked to see Buck coming up the trail with the dusty and bloodied pair of Chris and Vin.  
  
"Merciful Father," Josiah breathed. He looked at Pony, his expression serious. "Do what you can for him, Miss. Much obliged," he said quickly, then jumped up to go and help Buck.  
  
She watched him run off, then turned her large brown eyes to Nathan. He was frowning at Ezra, who was returning the expression with equal ferocity.  
  
"If he wants t'be a stubborn fool, I can't do nothin' about it," Nathan said, getting to his feet.   
  
He paused, glancing down at Ezra for just a moment. Ezra's eyes were closed again, but Pony could feel him still trembling beneath her hand. For just a moment the anger on Nathan's face disappeared, replaced by something close to sadness. Then he turned and hurried away to the others.  
  
JD appeared and handed her the well–worn canvas bag she carried her kit in. "Here you go, miss. Can you help him?"  
  
"I'll try," she replied, reaching into the bag and assessing its contents. "He's beat up pretty bad, though."  
  
After a few moments of silence, she looked up to see JD looking down at Ezra's unconscious form, trying to speak. Powerful emotion seemed to be strangling his voice.  
  
"You all right?" she said, taken aback.  
  
With a start, he looked up at her, somewhat thrown. "Oh yeah," he finally gasped. "Just – I'd really be grateful if you could help him. I...got some things I wanna say to him. That's all."  
  
She thought of the pain that had been in Ezra's green eyes when he had spoken to her so long ago, about wanting his friends to live despite the pain they'd caused him. She still didn't understand such thinking, but she did want Ezra to survive this, and perhaps mend whatever had been broken between himself and these men. He deserved that much.  
  
Looking up at JD, she said, "Can you help me carry him to the river? Them cuts need cleanin' powerful bad."  
  
JD nodded, and as carefully as he could lifted Ezra by the arms while Pony carried his feet. Together they made their way down to the river, Pony hoping that she could restore the wandering gambler to his friends while he still had life enough in him to appreciate it.  
  
  
  
"Dang it all, Vin," Nathan was saying as he looked at Vin's bare, bloodied chest," you done ripped out every one of them stitches."  
  
"Reckoned as much," Vin panted as he sat next to Chris on the shaded rock, his breath coming in gasps. One hand clasped a canteen, already mostly drained of its contents.  
  
"Yates must've put up one hell of a fight," Josiah observed as he helped Chris drain another canteen.   
  
Chris nodded as the canteen was taken away, still trying to catch his breath from the pain and exhaustion. "Yeah, he did," he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Damn fool, wouldn't even let me save his life."  
  
"Some men ain't as afraid of dyin' as of livin' – OW!" Vin winced as Nathan placed a treated cloth against one of his scrapes. "Damn, that stings, Nathan!"  
  
"Blood poisonin' stings worse," was the sharp reply, as Nathan continued to apply his medicine. "Now hold still."  
  
"So what now?" Buck asked quietly, looking back over the scene of the gunfight.  
  
Chris sighed and rubbed his face hard, being careful of the bruises and cuts. "We'll wait til we can all travel, then...head back home."  
  
Silence fell over the group, a sad blanket of disappointment shrouding them all.  
  
"I'm sorry, Vin," Buck finally said in a somber voice.  
  
Vin glanced at him, then let his blue eyes travel over the small group. Weariness etched every line in his handsome face, but the eyes shone with more resolve now than pain.  
  
"I ain't gonna lie an' say this is what I wanted," he said softly, his voice rough with fatigue, "but the way I see it, as long as I got breath, an' you fellers to fight with me, I got hope. This here ain't the end of the trail, just a...just a restin' spot."  
  
"Amen," Josiah whispered.  
  
"You know we'll back you, Vin, no matter what comes," Buck chimed in, his blue eyes firm.  
  
Vin nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'm sure grateful to you fellers for that," he said.   
  
Chris looked at them all seriously. "Judge hired us to ride together," he stated simply, "an' I reckon that's what we ought to do, long as we can."  
  
They fell silent again, each man occupied with his own private thoughts.   
  
"How you figure that Ezra?" Buck finally said. "Showin' up out of nowhere like that. Scared the tar outta me, I can tell you that."  
  
"Nothin' Ezra does ever surprises me," Chris confessed, pulling his bloodied black shirt from his bruised body in a very slow manner. "He say what happened to him?"  
  
Nathan grunted as he finished cleaning Vin's torn stitches. "Crossed somebody gamblin', most likely."  
  
He pursed his lips, shaking his head, and lifted his eyes. To his surprise, he found Josiah looking straight at him, an expression of sadness on his long face.  
  
"That gal Pony told me he got that way tryin' to save us," he said slowly.  
  
"Pony?" Chris looked over as he tossed his ruined shirt away, his bruised chest glistening with sweat and ruby-red drops of blood.   
  
"One of Eli Joe's gang," Buck explained, leaning against a tree. "Saved JD's life, I reckon we can trust 'er."  
  
"I don't," Nathan said as he began to stitch up Vin's wounds. "Only reason I let 'er look after Ezra was he didn't want me touchin' him."  
  
"Did she say what happened?" Vin asked through clenched teeth.  
  
Josiah shook his head. "She's mighty suspicious of us, an' scared."  
  
Buck sighed. "Hell, she's young an' alone now. That'd scare anybody." he glanced back to the campsite, at the lone figure of Gray, still cuffed to the wagon wheel, unmoving and heedless of his surroundings. "Guess we'll have to find a jail to put the ol' man in on the way back."  
  
"Or a hospital," Josiah offered, gazing at the man himself. "He don't look right in the head at the moment."  
  
"That whole gang must've been crazy," Nathan said with a sad shake of his head as he stitched. "That blonde Indian–lookin' fella I chased up into the hills, he had the wildest eyes I ever seen on a white man."  
  
Vin nodded. "Reckon you're right, Nathan."  
  
"Well," the healer shrugged as he broke off the thread and knotted it, "he jumped off that cliff before he'd let me help 'im, so I don't spose we'll ever know what drove 'im."  
  
Josiah shook his head. "What drove 'em all, I guess. Madness for revenge – against us, or God, or the world, might not have mattered much to them."  
  
"Just lookin' for a fight, I reckon," Buck sighed. "An' now it's over."  
  
Josiah leaned forward thoughtfully, his eyes going to the path where JD and Pony had carried Ezra.  
  
"This fight's over, Buck," he said quietly. "But there's still others goin' on."  
  
  
  
Ezra sighed as he idly watched Pony rinsing out a bloodstained cloth in the river. Amazing to think, he mused, that it was all over now.  
  
He closed his eyes and tried to relax. It was very soothing to lie here propped up against a rock in the shade by the cool river, he thought. Everyone was safe, the fight was finished, and while it did not have a perfect resolution – there was no telling what Vin would do, now that Yates was gone, and he still had to explain to the others how he came to be here instead of in St. Louis – at least there had been no casualties among their small group. Now he would be able to recover from his ordeal, and decide what to do next.  
  
Pony, it turned out, was quite skillful in the art of nursing. Once she and JD had gotten Ezra to the river, the girl had wasted no time cleaning the angry red wounds disfiguring Ezra's body. Ezra had only a vague memory of this, being only partly conscious at the time, but he remembered the remnants of his torn and bloody clothes being carefully removed, and the indescribably soothing feeling of cold clean water rinsing off his dirty skin. All that remained on him now were the somewhat tattered remains of his summer underwear, which now resembled a pair of sliced – up knee breeches.   
  
JD was gone now, and Pony had finally finished stitching and bandaging the cuts and gashes. Sore and weak, Ezra had little strength to do much besides try to stay awake, and feel eternally grateful that they had all survived.  
  
"Here you go," he heard Pony say through a hazy, heat–induced doze, and he opened his eyes to see her walking towards him with a dripping canteen, the falling droplets sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. She crouched next to him and helped him drink, steadying the canteen with one hand.  
  
"Them bruises will take a while t'heal," she was saying, looking over his battered body with an experienced eye. "An' don't go pullin' out them stitches. You're as sewed up as a rag doll right now."  
  
Ezra coughed a little and gently pushed away the canteen after he'd had enough. "Thank you, my dear," he said, leaning back and licking his lips. "I'm quite familiar with this routine."  
  
She looked at him with a crooked smile as she recorked the canteen. "Been through this before, huh?"  
  
Ezra groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Quite often – association with Mr. Larabee and the others seems to invite this sort of abuse."  
  
"Huh," she chuckled and set the canteen aside, settling down in the grass next to him. "Bet you're happy. I mean, you're back with your friends now. It all worked out."  
  
"Yes," Ezra said in a sleepy voice, gazing at the river through half–open eyes. "It appears Fate has smiled on our imperfect band once again. Now I must simply decide on my place in it." He opened his eyes a little and looked at her. "My thanks for your help, Pony. At least two of my comrades would be dead right now, were it not for your intervention."  
  
She shrugged, wrapping her arms around her knees and looking away. "Shit, Ezra, I ain't no hero. Just – didn't seem to me they ought to die like that. Once I thought they did, but..." Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged again.  
  
Ezra smiled. "A bewildering lot, aren't they?"  
  
She looked at him and smiled back a little. "Sure are. Nothin' like Eli Joe's gang, that's for sure. Reckon they'll take some gettin' used to, til they decide what to do with me."  
  
There was a moment of silence as Ezra pondered the question. "That will be up to Judge Travis and Chris, but I believe JD and Josiah will be able to at least put in a good word for you. And I will do all in my power to assure you a fair sentence."  
  
Pony grinned at him and very lightly slapped his arm. "Knew I saved your life for some reason," she said. Then a more serious light came into her brown eyes. "Hey, who's that Nathan feller? You sure cut him dead, back there."  
  
Ezra shifted a bit, uncomfortable at the thought of discussing his anger with Nathan right now. "You need not concern yourself with him, my dear. He and I have...a difference of opinion on some matters, and I prefer that they stay private."  
  
She snorted. "Must be a hell of a difference. Is he a doctor?"  
  
"A healer," Ezra corrected her, "not a doctor, although he has had a brief memory lapse in that regard recently."  
  
"That why you're so riled at him?" she inquired, leaning back on her elbows in the grass.  
  
A baby headache sprang up behind Ezra's eyes, and he massaged them weakly. "Forgive me, Pony, but there is little that I wish to discuss about Mr. Jackson. Ours is a quarrel which may never be settled, and I believe we are both content with that."  
  
Pony looked at him in surprise. "You are? Even after all you went through to save their necks?"  
  
Ezra sighed. "I will never regret what I've done, Pony, but there is a gulf between myself and Nathan that is well nigh unbreachable."  
  
She cocked her head. "'Cause he's colored, an' you're a Southerner?"  
  
He paused. "At one time that may perhaps have been true, but not any longer. It is because he has acted dishonorably, and has refused to admit his failings while continuously upbraiding me for mine. And while I am no angel, I am also not a hypocrite."  
  
He frowned and leaned back again, watching the river and desperately hoping she would close the subject.  
  
"He sure didn't look like he blamed you for nothin' when he saw you was hurt," he heard her offer almost timidly. His eyes snapped open and he studied her, his mood bordering on irritation.  
  
"Pure reflex, I assure you," he replied. "LIkely he planned to lecture me while binding my wounds."  
  
He gave her a steady, conversation–ending gaze, and leaned back once more, closing his eyes. A nap sounded perfect right about now.  
  
He heard a soft rustle as she stood. "Well, you wanna throw it away, that's up to you," she said.  
  
He opened one eye and looked at her. "Throw what away, I pray?"  
  
She was looking down at him, wiping her dusty palms on her pants. "Your friendship, with that Nathan."  
  
"I would hardly call it a friendship," Ezra countered, both eyes open now. He was going to win this argument if it killed him. "It is a business arrangement."  
  
"Yeah?" Pony crouched back down, her own eyes wide. "Well, you can call it what you want, but all's I can say is, I wish to Hell I'd been able to find a 'business arrangement' like that when I was scared an' alone after Pa died. Instead I found Eli Joe, an' a mean bunch of bastards who'd just as soon shoot you as look at you. I been around hard men like that most my life, an' I know what it's like t'have folks around you that don't care. But this Nathan feller, he ain't one of those."  
  
Ezra eyed her keenly. "And you figured that out, in the two minutes you spent with him?" he said in a skeptical voice.  
  
"Hell, yes!" she replied, becoming angry. "I can read a person right quick – had to learn that fast. This Nathan might be a hypocrite or whatever, but there weren't no lyin' in his eyes when he saw you was hurt. He looked scared to me, like they all did. An' I guess – "  
  
Her voice faltered, and she sat back on the grass, pulling at it idly as she struggled to find the words. Her eyes looked off into the distance as she spoke.  
  
"I guess I just can't figure," she finally said, in a sad voice, "why you'd have someone like Nathan, who wanted to help you out so bad, an' you'd just push 'im off. That sort of carin' ain't so common that you can just toss it away with both hands like that, Ezra. Believe me, I know."  
  
She looked up at him. "Course I don't really know nothin' about you. Maybe you had a good time growin' up, with a nice home an' lots of friends an' folks who loved you. Maybe you never had no trouble findin' a home an' fittin' in. I never had none of that, maybe that's why, if I had what you got, I'd fight for it with everything I had, even if I was riled. He might turn his back on you, but you'll know you didn't let it go without a fight."  
  
She looked up, sniffed, and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Well, anyway, I'm probably just shootin' my damn mouth off an' meddlin' where I shouldn't. But you asked why I gave a damn an' that's why."   
  
There was a long silence, during which they both sat in thought, watching the river shine and flash in the afternoon sun.  
  
"Very noble sentiments, my dear," Ezra finally said quietly, torn between his anger at Nathan and his desire for peace. "They may be easier spoken than put into practice, however."  
  
She gave a slight shrug and looked away. "Yeah, well. After all you been through for them already, I reckoned you was up to the fight." She stood. "You rest up, I'm goin' to finish washin' out the rags."  
  
She turned on her heel and walked back to the river. Ezra watched her go, still bewildered by the girl's simply spoken words. It was a lot to think about, and Ezra mulled over the question in the cool afternoon shade until he once more fell asleep.  
  
  
  
The setting sun was casting its rosy light across the quiet campsite as Nathan set himself down on a rock with a weary sigh. It had been a hard day – first the gunfight, then the aftermath. Vin and Chris had both been seriously wounded, and he had nearly worn himself out stitching the two of them up.  
  
He rubbed the back of his neck with slow, aching movements and let his tired gaze drift past the small campfire to where the two men were resting. Chris was sitting up against a rock, still awake (despite his recommendation to get some sleep, Nathan noted with slight irritation) and keeping watch over Vin. Removing the bullet from Chris's leg and treating his cuts and bruises had gone as well as could be hoped; their leader had endured it all with only the occasional grunt, and a good deal of sweat, as the only clues to the amount of pain he was in. He was weak, now, but knowing Chris it would not be long before he was back in the saddle.  
  
Vin had been more chancy, Nathan recollected as he sipped at the tin cup of coffee he held in one hand. Chris had insisted that the tracker be treated first, and it had taken Nathan quite a while to sew up Vin's torn stitches. Almost every one of them had been ripped out – it must have been one hell of a fight. But what else could you expect from Vin, the healer mused with a small smile. After all, he was fighting for his life...  
  
Now Vin was asleep near the campfire, unbothered by the hustle of Buck trying to fix dinner. They'd have to be careful on the way back home, Nathan realized as he finished his coffee – Vin would have to ride in the wagon again, and he sure wouldn't like that. But he was in no shape to ride. And Ezra would have to travel in the wagon too, until he was strong enough to saddle up.  
  
Ezra. Nathan frowned at the jumbled feelings the name conjured up, frustration mixed with pain over the Southerner's angry rejection of his help. Bullheaded to the end...  
  
"Enjoyin' the moment of peace, Nate?"  
  
Nathan looked up to see Josiah walking towards him from the campsite, hat off, blue eyes shining in the last pink rays of the setting sun.   
  
Nathan smiled and nodded as Josiah sat himself on the rock next to the healer. "Yup. Done enough today, I spose."  
  
"That you have," Josiah agreed, and waved a hand towards the pot simmering over the campfire. "Buck says dinner'll be ready soon."  
  
A chuckle escaped Nathan's lips as he set down his empty cup. "Lord, I been so busy, didn't even notice I was so hungry. Right now I could even eat Buck's cookin' an' like it."  
  
"After a day like this one, I think we can all share that sentiment," Josiah agreed, rubbing his eyes. "A hot day, my brother, a very hot day."  
  
Nathan sighed, his eyes glancing at the battle debris that still littered the landscape. "They gave us a fight, that's for sure." he paused, then looked at Josiah. "Did you an' Buck get 'em all buried?"  
  
Josiah's eyes were clouded as he leaned back on his hands, his expression pensive. "Buried the men we found dead on the mountain, an' the boy who attacked me." He looked slowly at Nathan. "But we searched all over, an' couldn't find a trace of Yates or that white Indian – dressed man you went after. It was like they were snatched up whole into the afterlife."  
  
Nathan's face grew serious as he watched the sun slip below the horizon. "Guess Yates must've been washed downriver. Hard to believe he'd survive a fall like that. An' that fella I was chasin' – he must've been dragged off by animals."  
  
Josiah took a deep, exhausted breath. "Perhaps, brother. Most likely we'll never know. All we can do is pray that their evil ways have won them their just rewards."  
  
Nathan nodded. "Amen," he said quietly. He didn't like to think that the wild madness he'd seen in that blonde man's eyes was still alive somewhere, waiting to recover and strike again. He wanted to believe that it was over.  
  
They were silent for a while, watching Buck as he stirred the dinner pot.   
  
"You see Ezra?" Josiah finally asked in the twilight stillness.  
  
Nathan gave a short sigh and shook his head. "I know he's restin' up over yonder an' JD's keepin' an eye on him an' that gal from Eli Joe's gang. But he don't want nothin' to do with me, so I'm keepin' my distance."  
  
"Hm," Josiah replied, with a nonjudgmental grunt. "Don't reckon he'll be up to stackin' the deck for a while. Pony fixed him up but he's got a long road ahead of him."  
  
"Glad she was there," Nathan said, a touch of anger in his voice. "The man was willin' t'bleed to death before he'd let me help 'im." He paused, then looked at his old friend. "Never saw a man that stubborn, Josiah."  
  
The other man smiled a little. "Me neither, but that's good. It's probably what's kept him alive this long." He turned his eyes to Nathan. "Leastways, now you can patch things up if you want."  
  
Nathan scowled, his manner becoming edgy. "He don't wanna listen to a word I say, Josiah. Hard to mend fences with a man that won't talk to you."  
  
"I know that," was Josiah's thoughtful response as he looked down at his hands. "But I also know it ain't right to let a quarrel go without tryin' to end it. The bad blood just keeps festerin' til nothing on God's earth can cure it – an' before you even know it, it's too late. It's a terrible burden to bear, my friend. A terrible burden."  
  
Nathan could see sad memories lurking behind Josiah's blue eyes, of his father perhaps, or some other rift in his life that was never mended. Nathan eyed Josiah with confused skepticism. "What, you mean I should go crawlin' to Ezra an' beg his forgiveness when he's the one causin' the fuss? I tried to apologize to 'im for what happened, back before we left town. He practically threw me out of the saloon."  
  
Josiah eyed him carefully. "An' that was all Ezra's doin'?"  
  
The healer hesitated, remembering their fight, how Nathan had brought up Ezra's failed saloon and thrown it in his face. He recalled how ashamed he was of himself afterwards, how he'd blamed it on Ezra's stubbornness. But he knew in his heart it wasn't all Ezra's fault, that Nathan had allowed his pride to get the better of him.  
  
Josiah sat up, stretching as he gazed at the deepening night sky. "I'm sorry, Nate, I know I shouldn't be interferin' in matters like this that ain't none of my business. But it's my job to help souls in pain, an' I can tell that you an' Ezra are both in need of a healin'." He turned to Nathan and put a hand on his shoulder, his face serious in the dim light of the flickering campfire. "You're my friend, Nate, an' Ezra's my friend too. So I hope whatever needs to be fixed between you gets worked out, so you can both have peace, before the day comes when it won't be possible."  
  
"Come an' get it, boys!" Buck's shout rang across the campsite, stirring both men from their reverie. They glanced in Buck's direction, then looked back at each other. Josiah patted Nathan's shoulder, then rose and walked towards the glowing fire.  
  
Nathan sat where he was for a few moments longer, his dark eyes deep in thought as they glistened in the fire's glow. Then he rose, still wrapped in contemplation as he went to join his friends, wondering if he could mend his own pain as skillfully as he had mended theirs.  
  
  
Pony sat some distance away from the campfire and watched the men as they got their dinner. Drawing her knees up to her chin, she folded her arms and rested them on her knees, idly wondering what was going to happen to her.  
  
After a few moments she looked over at Ezra, who lay sleeping under a tree only a few paces away. Ever since Pony and JD had carried him there a few hours earlier, Ezra had done nothing more than get some much–needed rest. Now he lay, half–curled up on his side beneath a thin blanket, his face almost hidden by the folded blanket which was serving as a pillow. He was still pale and weak, but at least he was still breathing as well. Pony felt slightly surprised at this; most other gangs she'd known would have pegged Ezra as deadweight and shot him hours ago.  
  
She heard footsteps crunching on the gritty desert ground, and whirled, half–convinced that they were coming to kill her after all. But it was only JD, carrying nothing more dangerous than a plate of food.  
  
"Hey!" JD said with a nervous smile, stepping back at her sudden movement. "Don't worry. I was just bringin' you some food."  
  
She regained her breath and managed to force a wan smile onto her face. "Thanks," she muttered as she accepted the plate. Suddenly she looked at it again, and paused.  
  
"Uh, it's okay," JD prompted, unsure why she seemed so hesitant. "Just a mess of beans an' some chili."  
  
She looked at him and shook her head, an expression of amused embarrassment on her face. "It ain't that, I was just thinkin' – this is the first meal I've had for a long time that I ain't had to cook up myself. Makes for kinda a nice change."  
  
JD grinned. "Wait til you taste it before decidin' that. It *is* Buck's cookin', after all."  
  
Pony chuckled a little, trying to relax. She picked up the fork. "Thanks."  
  
The young man nodded. "Sure." He turned, then turned back, struck by a thought. "Say, you don't have to sit all alone out here. If you want to come by the fire I'm sure it'll be okay."  
  
She grinned at him, her mouth full. "You sparkin' me, city boy?"  
  
"Oh, no!" JD said quickly. "No, I got a gal. I just mean – you might be kinda lonely out here, an' it's gettin' cold. That's all."  
  
Pony gazed up at him, more confused than ever. She was their prisoner, and JD was offering her food and a fire. It was unheard of. "Ain't you afraid I'll attack you, or run off?"  
  
JD shrugged. "You ain't done that yet. An' you saved my neck, an' Buck's an Ezra's too. If anyone says anything, they'll have to deal with us." He nodded his head once, to affirm the idea, then looked over at the still figure still dozing under the tree. "How's Ezra doin'?"  
  
"Still sleepin'," Pony said as she shoveled in another forkful of food. It really wasn't bad, but JD was right, Buck was no cook. "He's still plenty tuckered. Probably won't be right for a while."  
  
JD's gaze grew pensive and he shook his head. "He sure looks awful. What happened to him?"  
  
"Long story," was the answer as Pony put down her fork and looked up at him. "I don't feel right in talkin' on it just yet. But he was tryin' to help you, I can tell you that. He sure sets a store by you fellers."  
  
JD nodded sadly. "Well, things wouldn't be the same without Ezra, that's for sure. We're sure glad you helped him."  
  
She looked down at the half–eaten plate, embarrassed, then lifted her head, her brown eyes serious in the faint firelight. "Don't guess even your gratitude's enough t'keep me outta jail. You gonna lock me up like Gray?"  
  
Pony's gaze drifted over to the huddled, motionless figure still seated next to the wagon. He was uncuffed now, but his plate of food sat next to him untouched as he continued to stare dispiritedly into the darkness.  
  
JD looked back at her. "I don't rightly know what's gonna happen, Miss Pony. That'll be up to the judge. But we'll put in a good word for you, you can count on that."  
  
He looked behind him towards the fire. "Now I gotta go – Buck's food tastes even worse when it's cold."  
  
With a half–smile and a tip of his bowler hat – a gesture which took Pony by complete surprise – JD walked back to the fire, leaving Pony to her thoughts.  
  
She finished her food in silence, watching the men as they ate in the growing brightness of the campfire. She could hear them talk, and laugh a little. The leader, Larabee, was there, but that Vin guy wasn't. Probably sleeping like Ezra, she figured. They moaned about their wounds with mocking words, except for Larabee who seemed pretty quiet and thoughtful. A good hour passed as Pony observed them, looking for some sign of the monsters Eli Joe and Hanley had painted these men to be. There had been nothing so far, but her wary heart was still waiting for the truth to emerge in a word or gesture. The truth that men were all the same, and she was right to have given up on believing any different.  
  
After a while she shivered; the air was becoming biting with the sun gone. A movement in the fire caught her eye, and she saw Josiah coming towards her, his figure looming in the fire's glare.  
  
"Doin' all right?" she heard him say; it was hard to see his face.  
  
She nodded, unwilling to admit that she was getting cold. "Sure am. I been out in worse'n this."  
  
She saw the shadow nod, and he walked over to Ezra's unconscious form.  
  
"What're you thinkin' on?" she asked nervously, a fear rising in her chest, that they really were going to kill him now.  
  
"Don't fret," Josiah replied as he bent over and very carefully lifted Ezra's sleeping body in his arms. "Just movin' Ezra closer to the fire where it's warmer." He turned so she could see his face, and she saw the unfamiliar expression of compassion there. "You're welcome to join us if you want to keep an eye on him. Don't guess he'd want you to freeze."  
  
With that he turned and made his way back to the fire, carrying Ezra's blanket–wrapped form with great care. Pony hesitated, then rose and followed him, almost hoping the men would do something to prove her suspicions were correct. It would make hating them – as she knew she should do – so much easier.  
  
She crept slowly into the warm circle of firelight, reading each expression as she approached. Most of them were friendly, Larabee's was slightly suspicious, Nathan's even more so. But nobody raised a word or hand against her as she sat down, and after a few uneasy moments the air around the fire relaxed, the men beginning to talk quietly once again.   
  
She watched as Josiah gently placed Ezra down close to the fire, but far enough away so that their talk would not disturb his slumber. He looks so damn pale, she thought; even worse in the full firelight. She noticed the men were watching with concern too, and saw Nathan in particular eying Ezra with a mixture of anxiety and regret.  
  
"He gonna make it?" she heard Buck ask her.   
  
She looked over to where he sat on the ground, his back against a rock. "Reckon so, if he gets rest an' good care. I did all I could for 'im, it's his fight now."  
  
"A man can fight back from the brink of hell, if he's got a mind to," Larabee offered, then returned to drinking his coffee. The other men nodded solemnly.   
  
"So can a gal," Pony replied softly, staring into the fire. "I done it enough to know."  
  
"That how you got mixed up with Eli Joe?" Josiah asked as he sat down with the others.  
  
Pony grunted, wishing she hadn't brought it up. "Pert near. Lost my baby brother an' ma an' pa an' decided life wasn't worth carin' about. But it ain't somethin' I like to talk on, so don't mind me. I'm just gonna sit by the fire for a spell."  
  
With that, she shut her mouth, hoping they'd ignore her. She really didn't want to give them her life story, it was all in the past and pretty damn pointless. She just wanted to rest and see what would happen next.  
  
The talk started again, soft and amiable, and she began to relax a bit as she realized they were respecting her wishes and leaving her alone. As she sat watching the fire, she felt eyes on her, and lifting her head saw Larabee eying her intently. She saw him studying her with those green eyes, for just a moment, before looking away, his face now thoughtful rather than suspicious.  
  
She shivered, recognizing the pain in Larabee's green eyes, a pain even the darkness couldn't hide. It was an expression of deep loss and understanding, something she never dreamed she'd see in anyone's eyes but her own. *He lost someone*, she realized, *and it tore him up too.* A curious thought, that she and Larabee would have anything this side of Hell in common. But what lay beneath that bitter pain in the gunslinger's eyes, she couldn't tell.  
  
The night wore on, and the time came to bed down. The fire was doused to a dim glow, and bed rolls and blankets were produced. Pony sat quietly, waiting; surely now, she thought, one of them would insist on being with her, just like in Hanley's gang. She was ready; one bed was like another, after all.  
  
JD came up to her, holding out a blanket. "Got this from your horse, Miss. Thought you might need it."  
  
She took it from him warily. "Thanks," she said, thinking, *Now he'll say he wants a different kind of thanks, I bet.*  
  
JD smiled. "Sure. Night." He turned and walked away, hoisting his own bed roll onto his shoulder carefully, to protect his wounded arm.  
  
She hesitated, then lay down, unfolding the blanket and looking around. None of them were even looking at her. Nathan was taking care of Gray; Pony noticed he didn't chain him back up before leaving the old man for the night. Josiah was checking on Ezra, and it almost looked to her like he was praying over him or something. Then he stood and looked down at Pony.  
  
"He's still with us, thanks to you," he said. "Hope you have a good night." A tug of his hat brim, and he too was gone.  
  
The talk died down, and quiet fell over the moonlit scene. Pony lay down, but was too nervous and confused to go to sleep right away. She strained to hear expected noises, the approach of bootsteps, a fumbling hand on her in the darkness, a rude suggestion – no, command – whispered roughly in her ear.  
  
Nothing. Only the sound of gentle snores broke the midnight silence.  
  
Pony's open eyes searched the darkness, bewildered by the truth. *Just wait*, her mind warned her, unwilling to fully give in. *It'll happen later – when you're asleep – when you can't defend yourself. Trent would laugh at you for being such a fool.*  
  
Part of her believed that, and the sleep which finally eased her exhausted mind was of the light, half–awake kind she was used to. But there was another corner of her soul, long hidden and neglected, that stirred ever so slightly, reaching weakly at the slight glimpse of hope offered to it. The hope that she'd been wrong.  
  
I guess we'll see, she thought, and went to sleep.  
  
  
The next day dawned in its course. The travelers rose soon after the sun, with the usual amount of yawning, and before long the campsite was astir with activity. Today they would begin the journey home.  
  
When Pony opened her eyes, she saw Ezra stirring in his blanket, his green eyes squinting sleepily at the faint sunlight. Pony sat up, ready to go to him, but before she could get to her feet, Josiah was at his side.  
  
"Mornin'," she heard him say with a smile as he knelt by his friend.  
  
"So I see," was Ezra's weak reply.  
  
"Feel like eatin'?" Josiah inquired.  
  
There was a pause. "Not at the present. Some water will suffice, I believe."  
  
"Comin' up," the preacher promised, standing. As Pony watched him walk away, she stood, and noticed Nathan nearby, packing up his supplies. He was looking at Ezra with sad hesitation, as if he were almost afraid to approach him. Or unsure as to whether he wanted to, Pony couldn't tell. After a few moments he returned his attention to his saddlebags, unaware of Pony's observation.  
  
Wonder if they'll make it up, she thought. Reckon that's up to them.  
  
"Feelin' better?" she asked as she stepped over to Ezra, scratching her close–cropped brown hair to relieve the morning dryness.  
  
Ezra had rolled onto his back and was rubbing his eyes with one hand. "'Better' is a relative term, my dear," he said wearily. "But I am better than dead, at any rate." He dropped his hand to his chest and looked up at her. "And have my comrades been treating you in an acceptable manner?"  
  
Pony gave a gasping laugh as she crouched beside him. "Hell, yeah. They been so nice to me it's downright unnervin'. Makes me think they're up to somethin'."  
  
A wan smile crept across the gambler's lips. "You will find that being devious is not among their talents. I know it's hard, my dear, but rest assured you can trust them."  
  
She grinned. "Well, reckon if you can, I can."  
  
Ezra was silent for a few moments, a thoughtful expression on his pale face. "I believe I am learning to," he said in a quiet voice.  
  
"Here's the water. Mornin', Miss Pony." Josiah said as he appeared with a dripping tin cup and tipped his large–brimmed hat in the young girl's direction.  
  
Pony nodded, unsure how to respond, as Josiah knelt once more in the dust and lifted Ezra up so he could drink.  
  
"We goin' back to your town?" Pony asked as Ezra drank.  
  
Josiah nodded. "Yep. We're close to Tascosa an' Vin's a wanted man there." He looked up at Pony. "But I guess Eli Joe told you all about that."  
  
Pony furrowed her brow. "Think I heard the name a few times, but he didn't talk that kinda stuff to me. All I ever heard about was tendin' the boys til Eli went off an' died." She shrugged. "Nobody ever told me nothin', figured I was a gal so I didn't need to know."  
  
"Hm," Josiah said, a bit sadly. "Was hopin' you'd heard Eli talk about framin' Vin. That'd help us clear his name, now that Yates is gone."  
  
She shook her head. "Never heard a word. Maybe Gray knows about it."  
  
They looked over to the wagon, where JD was trying to urge Gray to eat some breakfast. The old man seemed not to hear a word that was spoken to him, still staring off in silence.  
  
Josiah shook his head as he took the empty cup away. "Gray ain't up to talkin' now. Not sure he ever will be. It's like his spirit's broke."  
  
Pony sighed. "Always knew he hated bein' old. Never knew how much, though. Gettin' whipped by that Wilmington guy seems to have took the fight right out of 'im."  
  
"It was he who sought the conflict, my dear," Ezra reminded her as he settled back down on the blanket. "While I sympathize with his current state, I cannot help but remember that he did try to have me killed."  
  
"He'll have a chance to pay for what he's done," Josiah assured him as he rose. "I know a place with a good hospital for him, that'll see he stands trial once he recovers. He'll just die right off if we put him in jail."  
  
Ezra seemed to agree with this, as he had closed his eyes and appeared to be going back to sleep.  
  
"An' me?" Pony asked, eying him somewhat nervously.  
  
Josiah looked down at her and smiled a little. "You can come back to Four Corners with us, long as you promise not to run."  
  
Pony snorted. "I done enough runnin', believe me."  
  
"Then come on along," Josiah said. "Judge Travis'll be in town, we can talk to him about what to do with you."  
  
"Travis?" Pony's eyes narrowed. "What's he like?"  
  
Josiah weighed the question. "Got a fair mind an' an iron hand. Not much for foolishness, so I wouldn't try to sweet talk 'im."  
  
A hard laugh burst from Pony's lips. "Mister, I couldn't sweet talk nobody if I tried. But I won't play no games neither."  
  
"He'll appreciate that. Might make things easier for you–guess we'll see in the Lord's good time." Josiah looked down. "You think Ezra's in any shape to ride?"  
  
Pony shook her head. "Hell, no. Best have 'im ride in that there wagon til he's strong again."  
  
Josiah nodded. "Thought as much. Vin's the same way." He eyes Pony gravely. "Your men sure could fight, Miss Pony. Gotta give 'em that."  
  
Pony sighed, her eyes distant. "Yeah, they sure could. Just wonder if they ever knew what they were fightin' for."  
  
There was no answer in Josiah's thoughtful eyes as he tipped his hat once more and walked back to the smoldering campfire. She stood for a moment, lost in contemplation over the remarkable changes she was about to face and wondering if she should be happy or terrified. Realizing that all she could do was wait and see, she shook herself from her trance, checked to make sure that Ezra was still resting quietly, and went to saddle up her horse.  
  
  
  
Chris cursed softly to himself as he rubbed his wounded leg and sipped at the hot tin of coffee he held in his hand. Still weary and disappointed from the day before, the last thing he felt like was a long trip back to Four Corners. But with no witness now to clear Vin's name, there was little else to do but turn back, and hope another day of justice would come.  
  
Bitterness gnawed at Chris's heart as he ran one hand through his loose blonde hair while tossing the last of the coffee away with the other. It was hard not to feel defeated, after coming all this way and not being able to do anything for Vin. Even though they were all still alive, and Eli Joe's gang had been destroyed forever, there was little sense of victory in the gunslinger's soul. He knew that as long as Vin was a hunted man, a part of Chris would be a fugitive as well.  
  
He looked over to where Vin was sitting on the ground, patiently enduring an examination by Nathan and trying to eat a hard biscuit. Vin seemed more pale, the bruises more evident now that they had had a while to fully set in. The tracker, normally taciturn, had been downright monk–like in his silence since the fight, and Chris suspected he knew why. And hated it.  
  
*If Yates don't clear my name, sooner or later someone's gonna come gunnin' for that bounty. An'...I ain't aimin' t'have nobody get hurt because of it.*  
  
Yates would never be able to clear anyone's name now, although they could come up with no body to prove his death. Buck, Josiah and JD had combed the riverside, and only managed to find the bloated corpse of Hanley, washed up on the banks and already half–eaten by the desert predators. Yates' remains must have met a similar fate, somewhere else.  
  
*DAMN it*, Chris spat to himself as he leaned forward on the rock and folded his hands, staring at nothing. He knew he could try to stop Vin from leaving, or tell the Judge not to allow it, but he had too much respect for the tracker to interfere in his decisions that way. A man had to choose his own path, even if it was solitary and dangerous.  
  
Even if the path he chose was wrong.  
  
He looked over at Vin, who was now sitting calmly as Nathan rewrapped his bandages, apparently lost in thought. It would be damn difficult to stay in Four Corners and not have Vin around, he thought with a painful twinge in his gut. He'd miss the tracker's quiet, steady companionship, the knowledge that there was always a reliable presence watching your back. But "miss" didn't exactly seem like the right way to put it–Chris felt that there would be an odd, vacant quality to their number without Vin, an emptiness of the soul no words could describe.  
  
The final fight with Yates flashed through Chris's mind, and he scowled at the memory. Anger beat against his heart; he had kept himself from doing what he truly wanted–to shoot Yates, as he had shot Eli Joe–and still Yates had died. He felt an infuriating frustration grip at him; if that was the way it was going to go, maybe he should have just shot Yates like he wanted and to hell with restraint. It had ended up the same anyway.  
  
He looked down at his hands, remembering how satisfying it had been to have Yates in his grasp. He'd wanted to kill him for what he did to Vin–maybe he should have. But with that thought came an answering idea, just as strong: If he had gone ahead and killed Yates, things would not be the same. True, the outcome of Vin's bounty would have been unchanged, but Chris would have had to live with the blood of Yates on his hands as well as Eli Joe's.   
  
His shooting of Eli had been quick, instinctual, done with no thought other than to save Vin. The killing of Yates would have been murder, plain and simple, done to assuage Chris's fury, dooming Vin for no better reason than the satisfaction of Chris's momentary rage. Then afterwards, the crushing knowledge that the brutality he had tried to leave behind remained in him still.   
  
And Chris realized he would not have been able to live with that.  
  
Chris lifted his green eyes to where Vin was standing up, with Nathan's help, now bandaged and ready to travel. His spirits lifted a little; Yates was dead, but Vin was still alive, and Yates' blood was not on Chris's hands. As long as Vin lived, Chris knew the tracker would fight to be free, no matter where that fight took him.   
  
Maybe he'd even let Chris along for the ride...  
  
"He's all set t'go," Nathan said as he guided Vin over to the large rock where Chris sat.  
  
"Thanks, doc," Vin breathed through gritted teeth as he gingerly sat down next to Chris, holding his shirt, hat and coat in one hand. "Though I ain't gonna thank you fer makin' me ride in that damn wagon."  
  
Nathan threw him a grin. "You could use your horse, but I'd just be stitchin' you back up again. It's up to you." He walked away towards the wagon with a triumphant smile.  
  
Vin shook his head as he pulled his hat on. "Sure hate the idea of bein' carted around like a sack of rocks."  
  
"Might not be so bad," Chris offered, leaning back. "Least you got some shade an' you won't be eatin' dust."  
  
Vin sighed and glanced at Chris. "He's lettin' you ride with that shot–up leg. I ain't so bad off."  
  
His friend eyed him seriously. "I heard men say that who wound up in a pine box not long after. Hate to think you'd end up the same way just for bein' stubborn."  
  
Vin glanced at him, still frustrated but accepting, and sighed. "Yeah, reckon you're right. Besides," he continued, leaning forward on his knees and looking away as the morning breeze tugged at his long brown curls, "I got some hard thinkin' to do, an' it'll be easier to do it lyin' down than in the saddle gettin' cooked by the sun."  
  
The other man watched him for a few silent moments. Finally Chris sighed in disgust and looked away, the pain twisting his gut.  
  
"Didn't want it to come to this, Vin," he said, watching as JD and Buck began packing up camp.  
  
Vin nodded. "Hell, neither did I. Four Corners been like a home to me." He paused and looked at Chris, a somber expression in his bright blue eyes. "But a home's a dangerous thing for a fugitive to have, Chris. You an' me an' the others, we can hold our own in a fight. But Mary, an' Casey, an' Inez..." His voice railed off and he shook his head slightly. "Don't seem right to put them townfolk in harm's way on account of me."  
  
"Don't seem right to leave 'em, neither," Chris pointed out quietly.  
  
Vin nodded in agreement, his eyes sad and distant. "No, it don't. So I'll probably need every minute I can get in that dang wagon to make up my mind. When we get back to town..." he looked back over at Chris. "I'll let you know what I come up with."  
  
Chris said nothing, not liking the foreboding sensation at the back of his mind.  
  
  
  
It was time to pack up and go home. There was a general bustle as Buck put away the cooking gear while JD made room in the back of the wagon for Ezra and Vin. It was discovered that one of the criminals' horses had disappeared during the night; it was quickly chalked up to a loose tether and forgotten. There were other matters more pressing.  
  
"We're gonna have to stop for supplies," JD announced as he pushed the few remaining boxes towards the front of the wagon, going easy on his bandaged arm.  
  
"There's a store in the last town we passed, one of us can go in," Josiah noted as he finished saddling his horse. "We'll be stoppin' there anyway."  
  
JD looked up as he jumped out of the wagon. "Why's that?"  
  
In reply, Josiah glanced over at where Nathan was helping Gray onto his horse. The old man was still handcuffed and bruised from his fight, but able to ride. He put up no resistance, his expression still one of bitter defeat.  
  
"Got some things need takin' care of," was all Josiah said, in a solemn voice.  
  
When all was ready, Vin limped over while hanging onto Chris's shoulder, still moving slowly and in a great deal of pain. Nathan and Chris helped the tracker climb slowly up into the wagon; inside, JD gave him a hand getting settled onto the blanket–covered boards. The grim expression on Vin's bruised face indicated that he was hating every minute of this.  
  
Josiah arrived soon afterwards, carrying Ezra in his arms as Pony walked behind him. The gambler was awake, and did not seem to be enjoying his treatment any more than Vin was. As Josiah began to hand Ezra to JD in the wagon, Nathan stood by, watching with an uncertain expression, concern mixed with hesitation.  
  
JD bent over to grip Ezra's shoulders and ease him into the wagon. As the young man tried to get a grasp on Ezra, his hands slipped, and for a moment the gambler was falling toward the ground. Then another arm shot out to catch Ezra, another hand gripped the gambler's tightly in an instinctual attempt to keep him from further harm. The brief moment of danger passed, but for a instant no one could move as Ezra stared in surprise into the equally amazed eyes of his savior, Nathan.  
  
The other men held their breaths, well aware of the tensions which still remained between the two men. There seemed to be none of that anger now as Ezra and Nathan regarded each other, Ezra still in Nathan's grasp, one hand tightly clutching the healer's to stop his fall. Both of them seemed too stunned to speak.  
  
Finally Ezra licked his lips. "An, ah, an admirable display of reflexes, Mr. Jackson."  
  
Nathan nodded slowly, as if still trying to believe that Ezra had not thrown him off. "Yeah. Uh, thanks."  
  
There was another moment of silence. JD was watching along with everyone else, then finally stepped forward.   
  
"God, I'm sorry, Ezra, guess my busted arm's still sore," JD said as he leaned over and took hold of the gambler under his arms. "Okay, Nathan, you can let go, I got 'im."  
  
"Sure," Nathan nodded, releasing Ezra into JD's hands. He stepped back and watched as Ezra disappeared into the wagon, still bewildered.  
  
"Guess you weren't gonna let 'im fall after all, huh?" said a voice at Nathan's elbow, and he turned to see Josiah standing beside him, a quiet smile on his broad face. Nathan smiled and shrugged.  
  
"Just didn't want to do no more stitchin', I guess," he said, his voice betraying a deeper emotion than his words. "Least he's talkin' to me."  
  
The preacher gave his old friend a careful look. "And if he keeps talkin', will you try an' listen?"  
  
There was a pause, then Nathan smiled again, a little, and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, think I will."  
  
Josiah grinned back and set his hat on his head. "Then let's go home, my friend. I believe we all have some healing to do."


	7. Default Chapter Title

The journey home began as a slow one. There was concern that Vin and Ezra might get jostled too much in the wagon if a faster pace was adopted, so they covered relatively little ground the first day out. They were also encumbered by the added duty of caring for two prisoners and the horses left behind by the slain outlaws. The horses proved to be more bothersome; Gray seemed content to ride wherever he was led, too demoralized by his defeat to do anything but brood, and Pony knew enough not to make trouble.  
  
Nathan took care to ride close to the wagon, ordering frequent stops to check on its two invalid passengers. Vin was very sore and weak but alert, and bore the wagon's bouncing with stoic silence. Ezra had slipped again into unconsciousness as soon as the trip began, and remained in that state during the entire day. Nathan often caught the tracker studying Ezra's cuts and bruises with an odd, troubled look on his face, and the healer wondered if Vin knew something the rest of them hadn't figured out yet.  
  
As it turned out, the healer did not have to wonder for long. That evening they stopped at sunset, and after the horses were unsaddled and supper was eaten, the group settled down to relax around the small campfire. Ezra had been awake for dinner, but was soon asleep again, still exhausted by his ordeal. Once she was assured that he was all right, Pony joined the men by the fire, being careful to seat herself at the edge of the small circle. She was well aware that she was still being watched.  
  
The tired group had stayed silent, sipping coffee and resting after a hard days' ride, when Vin's quiet voice stirred the warm twilight air. "Miss Pony?"  
  
She looked up, still unnerved at being called 'Miss'. "Yeah?"  
  
Vin shifted in the place where he sat on the ground, his back against a boulder. His shirt was off, allowing his bandaged chest and arms more freedom. "D'you mind if I ask about what happened to Ezra?"  
  
"Yeah, I'd like to know too," JD said, a hint of dread in his voice.   
  
She hesitated, her young face anxious. "Well–before I tell you, you got to know I swear I didn't take no part in it." She said this emphatically, expecting them to question every word she would say.  
  
Josiah, however, gave her a sad smile. "It's all right, Miss. We seen how you took care of Ezra, an' how he trusted you. You don't got to be afraid to tell the truth."  
  
Pony was still wary, and glanced at Chris, who was sitting on rock next to Vin, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee and his green eyes watching her intently. "You ain't gonna like it."  
  
There was a moment of silence.  
  
Chris stirred, his expression softening just a bit. "Go ahead," he urged quietly; it sounded more like a request than a command.  
  
Pony searched those green eyes carefully, decided she was safe, and nodded, biting her lip.  
  
"He was tortured, wasn't he?" Vin asked, his blue eyes serious in the dim firelight.  
  
Buck and JD looked shocked, Josiah sorrowful as Pony paused, then nodded.  
  
Vin sighed. "Figured as much. Them bruises an' cuts, I seen some of the tribes break folks that way."  
  
Buck was breathless with surprise. "Damn, I thought he got jumped by robbers or somethin'. Who the hell would torture Ezra?"  
  
"Hanley," Pony replied gravely, her brown eyes sweeping the small group. "An' it was cause he was tryin' to help you all."  
  
The men stared at her without speaking; Josiah, who had already known, looked down at the ground in grief. Confusion and regret played across their faces, their eyes asking for more yet dreading to hear it.  
  
She saw their expressions and sighed. "Reckon I best start at the beginnin'," she said, taking a deep breath. "Hanley'd been plannin' to get Yates since Eli Joe was killed. We left Gray in town to keep an eye on you all, an' some of us followed you while the rest of us went to get more guns. That's when we ran into Ezra in Sutler's Forge."  
  
"Sutler's Forge?" Nathan said in surprise. "He told us he was goin' to St. Louis to see his mother."  
  
The young girl shrugged. "Got no notion of what he meanin' to do. But he was handy in a fight, so we offered to let him ride with us, an' he agreed. He didn't know what we was up to, Hanley didn't tell nobody until it was too late to back out. I think Ezra just thought we'd be tolerable company to ride with."  
  
"Why would Ezra lie about St. Louis?" JD asked, his voice hurt.  
  
Josiah shrugged. "Maybe he just wanted to do some thinkin', JD."  
  
"He was powerful busted up about that saloon," Nathan added, his voice heavy with the memory.  
  
Pony cocked her head. "Was that it? I know somethin' was eatin' him, but he never said what. Just that he'd had some friends that hurt him mighty bad – an' I reckon that'd be you."  
  
JD groaned. "Oh damn, I KNEW it!"  
  
"We didn't mean to do Ezra no harm, Miss Pony," Josiah assured her. "I guess we were just blind to what he was goin' through."  
  
"An' he never said a word to none of us that he was hurtin' that way," Buck remarked.  
  
Nathan's mouth twitched. "Maybe he said it to me," he said bitterly, looking away, "an' I just didn't hear it."  
  
Pony scowled at all of them. "Well, he sure was right riled at you, but–I've seen the way bad men treat other folks, an' from what I've seen you ain't bad men. Anyway, when you was all in danger, he didn't have the heart to let you come to no harm, so whatever bad feelin's he had weren't strong enough to drown out the good ones." She looked at JD. "Hell, Trent was about to cut you to bits, but Ezra fired his gun an' stopped the whole thing."  
  
JD's eyes widened. "I–I remember that! That was Ezra? He was that close?"  
  
Pony nodded. "He made out like it was a accident, but later on I figured out he'd meant to do it. Then Gray showed up an' fingered him, an' Hanley gave him to Dark Sun."  
  
Buck scowled. "Knew that guy was bad news, even before he winged me." He threw Gray an angry look, but the dazed outlaw didn't notice as he sat next to the wagon staring at nothing.  
  
"Ezra could've saved his own hide an' let you get killed," Pony said, "but he wouldn't do it. Kept sayin' It was against his honor, an' he couldn't live knowin' he'd let you all get killed. An' Dark Sun..." her voice trailed off and she shuddered, suddenly cold in the warm night. "He had voices in his head urgin' him to hurt folks, an' he liked doin' it. Then Hanley left Ezra for dead an' we rode out here. I...I didn't want to leave him, but I'da been shot dead sure if I'd tried to help 'im, an' Ezra made me promise to look after you all."   
  
There was a pause, and she looked at each man in turn, her brown eyes large and serious. "I'm bettin' Ezra didn't want you to hear any of this, but I reckon you got a right to know what happened to your friend. Reckon he was too proud to tell you his heart was broke, but it was, just the same."  
  
The group fell silent, each member absorbed by their own somber thoughts as they gazed into the fire or up at the stars now coming into view one by one. Only the sharp crackling and popping of the blaze disturbed the warm evening air. The hard expressions illuminated in the warm orange glow signified deep feelings of regret and admiration.   
  
Chris's face was unreadable, but his eyes blazed with anger at the criminals who had done this to one of his men. Their deaths had robbed Chris of the power to punish them, but his expression indicated his hope that they had perhaps found divine retribution elsewhere.   
  
"I'm never gonna forgive myself," JD finally said in a mournful voice.  
  
"I don't reckon that's what Ezra would want, JD," Josiah said softly, and turned his gaze at Pony. "We're obliged t'you, Miss, for lettin' us know about all this. Rest assured we'll find a way to make it up to 'im about the saloon."  
  
Pony gave him a sharp look. "What passed between you men is your own business, I guess, so you go about fixin' it however you want. But..." She sighed. "You oughta know, I ain't never seen no gang get along like you fellers, helpin' each other out an' all instead of fightin' for all the gold an' glory. It'd be a real shame if Ezra lost that after fightin' so hard for it."  
  
The men she addressed glanced at each other, as if realizing what their bond meant, to Ezra and to all of them.  
  
Josiah gave her a slight smile. "No need t'go paintin' us as saints, Miss Pony. We're just wanderin' sinners, like Ezra, lookin' for some momentary peace. Guess maybe we've found it by joinin' together, an' we won't let Ezra forget he's part of that too."  
  
Nathan smiled. "Much as he might hate to admit it, sometimes."  
  
Pony nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Hell, when you've learned not to trust folks it's hard to get back to doin' it again." She laughed a little, the sound tinged with bitterness. "Took 'im quite a few tries to get through to me."  
  
Vin leaned back and put his arm behind his head. "Well, we're right glad he did, Miss Pony. You been a big help to us already."  
  
She looked at him and tossed her head, a faint grin on her lips. "Ain't quite decided if you all are as crazy as Ezra or not. I think maybe you are."  
  
Josiah smiled and tipped his hat. "Miss Pony, we shall take that as the greatest of compliments."  
  
She grinned, and returned to gazing at the fire.   
  
  
  
JD sighed for the tenth time in frustration as he rolled over in his bedroll. Sleep wasn't coming, and he had a nagging feeling it was going to be a long night.  
  
He settled on his right side, positioning his wounded arm so that it caused him the last amount of pain. It was still very sore, and he told himself that was why he couldn't sleep. But he knew the real reason, and his attempt at self deceit soon met a miserable defeat.  
  
With a self-loathing sigh he surrendered and sat up, resting his arms on his knees as he looked around. The campsite was still in the moonlight, the cooling air disturbed only by occasional snoring from his friends and the irregular noises made by the horses. It was a tranquil scene, peaceful and soothing to behold, and so at variance with the violence of the day just past hat JD marveled to look at it.  
  
In the soft silver light he could make out the slumbering forms of all of his friends, and a sincere gratitude flooded the young man's soul, that they had all survived the day's battle. They were a bit busted up, sure, but nothing that wouldn't mend in time. He shook his head as he thought about it, running one hand through his thick, unkempt black hair; the gun battle had been frightening, exhausting, bloody and confusing, nothing at all what the dime novels had depicted. Certainly not what JD had expected, when he'd first come out West. Still, never once in that awful fight had he wished he were somewhere else. This was his home, and his friends, and he had never been so sure that he was doing the right thing. That they had all survived was a Godsend, and JD's soul offered a heartfelt prayer that their luck would hold.  
  
But still, everything wasn't quite right yet. His hazel eyes drifted over the moonlit landscape, and settled on a slender, blanket-wrapped form over by where the fire had been. Ezra, JD thought, and felt an immense sadness well through him. It had almost torn him in two to see how bad off Ezra was; he didn't know what had happened to him, but the result was, the gambler had almost died. And then he would never have known how sorry JD was for deserting him and hurting his feelings, because JD hadn't had the guts to tell him.  
  
The young man sat for a moment and contemplated the situation. Ever since he had laid eyes on Ezra's bloody, half-dead form, he had been consumed with a regret of startling intensity. Now, after everything that Pony had told him, he felt ready to die from shame. Not only had he hurt Ezra, he'd let him leave town without owning up to his thoughtlessness, with the result that Ezra thought nobody cared about what happened. He rubbed his face in anger; the dime novels also never said anything about complicated things like this.  
  
He shifted a little, glancing reluctantly in Ezra's direction, unnerved by the uncomfortable churning in his soul. *Maybe if I go see him*, he thought, *just really know that he's going to be okay, I'll feel better.*  
  
That sounded like a good course of action, and he wasn't going to get any sleep anyway so he might as well stretch his legs. Silently he slid out from his bedroll and stood, hatless in the cool desert wind. After a few moments, he began walking carefully towards the area where Ezra slept, taking pains not to disturb the other men.  
  
Ezra was curled up by the edge of the camp, not far from where the fire had been. JD paused for a moment, glancing at the unconscious form of Pony, hoping he wouldn't scare her if she woke up. But the girl seemed to be in a very deep sleep, and JD reasoned that if he moved very carefully and didn't make any noise, he'd be fine. Besides, he thought, she didn't seem to be the timid type.  
  
He walked over to where Ezra was sleeping and stood there studying his friend, suddenly unsure of what to do next. God, he thought, looking at him, he looks terrible. The pale moonlight washed away what little color Ezra still had; the numerous bruises and cuts appeared black in the darkness, and very painful.  
  
A sudden heaviness in JD's heart weighed him down, and he crouched slowly beside the gambler, his breath coming in painful gasps. God, Ezra, he thought, I'm sorry. Maybe if I'd told you before you left, this wouldn't have happened to you. I didn't know what to say then, an' I still don't. You'd know, you're so good with words. But now I wouldn't be surprised if you never wanted to say another of them words to any of us ever again.  
  
He sniffed and dragged one sleeve across his nose; this sure wasn't helping any. Looking at Ezra like this was only making him feel worse. He prepared to rise; maybe he'd just better go back to his bedroll.   
  
As he went to stand, however, he looked down once more at Ezra, and saw the gambler's half-open eyes glittering in the gentle moonlight, gazing at him.  
  
Startled and a little guilty, he stopped, and bent towards him, whispering, "Ezra?"  
  
He heard Ezra draw a slow breath and saw him lick his lips. "JD," he said in a soft drawl, "is there...any water?"  
  
JD looked around quickly, finally spying a canteen lying near to where Pony was dozing. Moving quietly, he stole over and retrieved it, personally grateful that he could do his wronged friend a small service.  
  
"Here you go, Ezra," he whispered, kneeling beside the gambler and opening the canteen.   
  
"Much obliged," Ezra muttered, lifting his head an inch or two. JD reached down and held him steady while he drank, sadly taking notice of every gash and bruise. It hurt as much as if he had received the wounds himself.  
  
When Ezra finished, JD carefully helped him lay back down, then sat back, watching him as he pushed the stopper back into the canteen. His heart was hammering, his tongue tied into nervous knots, but he knew if he didn't say something now, he'd regret it.  
  
"Ezra?" he said softly as the other man settled back in his blanket. He had to do it now before Ezra fell asleep again.  
  
The green eyes turned to him, and JD was relieved to see no anger on his friend's drawn face. "Yes, JD?"   
  
A few deep breaths, and JD felt ready, although he felt the need to stare at his hands as he talked, too unnerved to look Ezra in the eye. "Well, I-I wanted to let you know, what happened with the saloon, I never wanted it to be that way. I wasn't thinkin', an' I'm real mad at myself that you got hurt cause of it."   
  
He sighed, saying to himself, this is sounding so damn stupid. "I just-I couldn't tell you before, an' I should've. I know this don't make it right, but I had to come an' tell you." He steeled himself, and lifting his head met Ezra's gaze directly, in the hope that it would let the gambler know how sincere he was. "I'm sorry, Ezra."  
  
There was a soft rustling sound as Ezra shifted in his bedroll a little to look at JD, a serious expression on his face.   
  
"I know this could not have been easy for you, JD," he finally said, his voice rough. "Rest assured your apology has been accepted."  
  
JD felt the tension rush out of him, and he breathed a quick sigh as he relaxed.  
  
"Thanks, Ezra," he said with a weary smile. "That's really been eatin' at me. It..." He stopped, sighed, thought about it, then continued, "We been workin' together for what, six months now, an' after all we been through it don't feel right to be fightin' with each other." He drew one hand through his hair and laughed a little. "That sounds silly, don't it?"  
  
Ezra closed his eyes. "On the contrary, son, I know exactly what you mean."  
  
JD nodded, noting the heavy tone of understanding which flavored Ezra's words.  
  
"Yeah," he whispered, getting to his feet, "yeah, well...thanks, Ezra. I'm sure glad you're gonna be okay. An' if I can do anything for you, anything at all, you just name it."  
  
Ezra smiled a little as he opened his eyes and peered at his young friend. "I believe there is still the matter of your investment in the Standish Tavern, but we can wait to discuss that matter until we reach home."  
  
JD grinned; it was sure great to see the old Ezra back, even if it meant he'd probably be poorer for it. But that didn't matter now, not at all.  
  
"Great," he whispered. "See you in the mornin'."  
  
"I'll be there," Ezra muttered in reply, and closed his eyes again. JD stood for a moment, feeling a hundred pounds lighter, then turned and made his way back to his bedroll, confident that he could rest now. Within moments of crawling back into his bedroll, JD managed to fall asleep, and was soon dreaming of the past and future, and of seven men riding together into the jaws of adventure.  
  
  
  
By the middle of the next day they reached the outskirts of the nearest town. After setting up camp and finding Vin and Ezra some shade to rest in, Buck and Josiah gathered up the wagon, the extra horses, and Gray, and went into town. Pony did her best to say goodbye to the only other surviving member of her gang; he only nodded and smiled a bit, but gave no sign of truly understanding what she said or who she was.  
  
In several hours they came back, having sold the horses and bought supplies for the trip back to Four Corners. Josiah had made arrangements with the local marshal to allow Gray to recover at the local mission hospital ward under the custody of the priests there, whom Josiah had known for many years.   
  
Buck sent a wire on to Four Corners informing the citizen he'd left in charge of their return, asking particularly if he could send word if Judge Travis had arrived, and if Molly was all right.   
  
A message was also sent to Judge Watkins in Tascosa, informing him of the death of Yates and the fact that there would now be no trial for the impostor marshal. Vin's name was never mentioned; Watkins had known nothing of the tracker's involvement, and now that Vin's bounty was still in effect, it was desired that nobody in Tascosa find out where he was.   
  
The rest of the trip passed uneventfully. Within a few days Vin recovered sufficiently to ride again, and Ezra regained enough strength to complain good–naturedly about the fact that JD did not seem to want to leave him alone. The color was slowly coming back to his skin, and on the evening of the fourth day he was able to sit by the campfire, his back leaning against a rock, and share dinner with the rest of the men. The talk remained light; none of them felt ready yet to discuss Ezra's experiences, least of all Ezra. The time would come eventually.  
  
By the time they crested the hill and looked once more on the town of Four Corners a few days later, the weary party could only exchange looks of relief and sadness. It had been a very long journey in more ways than one, fraught with disappointment as well as discovery. But they had all survived, and there was not a doubt among them that as long as they rode together, they could face whatever destiny had in store without fear. Ezra, now recovered enough to ride proudly beside his comrades, felt this perhaps most of all.  
  
They spurred on their horses, and rode into town.  
  
  
The air in the grain exchange was hot and dusty, but no one in the makeshift courtroom moved as all eyes remained riveted on the scene before them.   
  
Four days had passed since the seven had come back home. All was pretty much as they had left it; beyond a few bar brawls and an attempted robbery of the tobacco shop, things had rolled on quietly in their absence.   
  
Molly had been delighted to see Buck again, and wasted no time in showing him just how delighted she was. When the handsome drifter showed his face again, it was filled with a smile that threatened to become permanent.  
  
Ezra went back to his room in Virginia's Hotel, and none of the men saw him in the Standish Tavern during the following days. JD reported that the gambler had not been seen in any of the town's saloons, and they could only assume that he was still thinking over what to do now. They saw little of him during those days, as he spent most of his time in his room resting, and while there was no longer any tension when Ezra met with them, they could tell that he was still wary and preoccupied. So they bided their time, hoping that the wariness would fade and he would fully rejoin their circle.  
  
Vin had likewise been quiet and thoughtful, spending long hours riding alone with his own decision to make. They all suspected the nature of his thoughts, and gave him the privacy he needed, knowing the difficult choice he faced. Chris was more edgy than usual, and seemed torn between persuading his friend to stay, and letting him follow his own path.  
  
But when Judge Travis declared that he was ready to pronounce Pony's sentence, the seven men were all present. Ezra was still pale and appeared tired, but sat ready to intervene on her behalf if necessary. There were some other spectators as well, curious local folk who'd heard that a dangerous criminal girl who'd killed a dozen men was going to be sentenced to hang. The seven men ignored them.  
  
Now Judge Travis stirred and removed his spectacles, his wise grizzled face lined with years of hard–earned wisdom as he studied the young girl now standing before him in her worn but now-clean jeans and shirt. His steely gray eyes fixed on her, their depths revealing a spirit of stern justice.  
  
"Margaret Ann Sullivan," he pronounced in a deep, grave tone, addressing Pony by her true name, "it has come to the attention of this court that for the past four years you have run with a gang headed by an outlaw calling himself Eli Joe. You are now under arrest for your involvement in this gang. Do you understand?"  
  
Pony swallowed, but did her best to hide her nervousness, feeling it was best to take the punishment she had coming. It was better than running, anyway. "Yes, sir," was all she said.  
  
The Judge glanced down at a paper before him. "You have signed a document outlining your involvement, which according to you consisted mostly of caring for your comrades. Your sworn testimony indicates that you have only been actively involved in the gang's criminal activities for a period of five months, and in that time have not fatally wounded another human being."  
  
Pony tensed, hoping they'd believe her. There had been a time when a reputation as a killer would have pleased her, but now she only wanted it to end. "Yes, sir, that's the truth."  
  
Judge Travis eyed her. "Miss Sullivan, it is up to this court to determine what is true and what isn't."  
  
She gulped and nodded, chastened.  
  
"Now then," he continued, picking up another piece of paper and examining it, "I have gathered as much documentation as possible in relation to the activities of Eli Joe and his gang, and I have found no evidence to contradict what you have sworn to be true."  
  
Pony hesitated, wondering if she should relax. Behind Ezra and the others, the spectators sighed in disappointment.  
  
"In addition," Travis continued, taking off his spectacles, "I have oral testimony from the lawkeepers of this town that you have aided them in their fight against Eli Joe's men at the risk of your own life, and have displayed ample desire to rehabilitate yourself. Since you have all survived to be here today, I cannot help but accept this evidence as valid."  
  
He paused, lay down the paper and folded his hands, his worn face now handsome and thoughtful. "This court wishes to encourage those who have strayed down the criminal path to turn their steps on a more acceptable course. Therefore, it is my decision to remand you to the custody of Chris Larabee and his men for a period of one year, to be spent in a suitable rehabilitative environment."  
  
Pony's breath caught in her throat. "You mean I ain't goin' to jail?"  
  
The Judge glanced at her. "Not unless they wish to put you there, Miss Sullivan."  
  
She let out a smiling gasp of joy and looked over to the men, who were all wearing expressions of great relief.  
  
"I am sure that will not be necessary, Your Honor," Ezra said with a smile.  
  
Josiah stood. "Your Honor?"  
  
Judge Travis looked up at him as he put his spectacles back on. "Yes, Mr. Sanchez?"  
  
Josiah took a few steps forward, coming to stand next to Pony. "There's an orphanage nearby, run by some women of the community. The little ones are a handful, an' they could sure use some help. With your permission, I'd like to place Miss Sullivan there, where she can help children who have also been wounded by life's misfortunes."  
  
The Judge looked sharply at Pony. "Is that agreeable to you, Miss Sullivan?"  
  
Pony seemed slightly thrown, and cleared her throat before she spoke. "Sure, I mean, yes, sir. I...I had a baby brother once, an' didn't have no trouble carin' for him before he died from the typhoid. An' maybe I can let them kids know they don't have to give up hope an' end up like I did."  
  
Travis nodded and shifted in his chair. "Mind the law in the future, Miss Sullivan, and there will be no need to be ashamed of who you are. From what I've been told, you have made excellent progress already, and I wish you luck in the future." He lifted the heavy wooden gavel and banged it once on the old desk. "Court dismissed."  
  
There was a general stir as the spectators and began to file out; half of them had already left, angered that there would be no hanging. The seven men gathered around Pony, offering her their encouragement.  
  
"Now you best not be lettin' me down," Chris warned as he looked at her seriously. "Josiah tells me them women don't cotton to troublemaking."  
  
Pony's eyes were just as serious. "Don't you worry none, Mr. Larabee. I kinda had my fill of troublemakin'."  
  
"This new life ain't gonna be easy," Josiah warned her as they began to walk from the courtroom. "It's a lot of hard work. An' they've agreed to help you with your schoolin', long as you keep up your end of the bargain. But I reckon you an' them poor children can maybe help each other find some new hope in life."  
  
Pony thought about it and nodded as they stepped outside into the sunlight. "I'd sure like to try that, Josiah." She hesitated, then smiled awkwardly. "Thank you."  
  
Josiah grinned. "We'll talk more about it later," he said, and they all moved off the porch. When they had all walked away, Pony saw that Ezra had stayed behind, and was gazing at her with a bright, proud expression on his pale face.  
  
She laughed. "See you've got to smilin' again."  
  
"I believe I have reason to smile, my dear," he said as he gracefully held out his elbow. She stared at it, puzzled, and he gently took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm, holding it there as they walked down the wooden steps into the street.  
  
"What's this all about?" she asked, frowning.  
  
"I am escorting you, Miss Sullivan," Ezra replied. "You'll have to learn such aspects of polite society, now that you are returning to civilization. You may decline, of course, but rest assured it is a gesture of the utmost respect."  
  
She paused, then shrugged. "Oh," was all she said, and seemed to accept it as they walked down the street. "Guess I'll just have t'get used to it."  
  
"I have no doubt you will succeed admirably," Ezra said, his smile returning. "Now, as I was saying, my reasons to rejoice are numerous. With your help I was able to survive and return to the company of my comrades, for which I am profoundly grateful."  
  
She looked up at him. "You ain't angry at 'em no more?"  
  
Ezra hesitated. "I cannot deny that some pain still lingers, my darling girl, but I believe I can better bear it now. I have come to understand that our association is too valuable to throw away on the mere triviality of hurt feelings." He glanced up the street at the distant facade of the Standish Tavern as they stopped walking. "Some wounds will take longer to heal than others, but now I believe that healing will take place."  
  
Pony smiled. "I'm right glad t'hear that, Ezra. You done so much for me, it's nice you got somethin' outta all this too."  
  
He looked at her as they began walking again. "You mustn't underestimate yourself, my dear. It took courage to make the choices you have made, and courage is a trait I highly admire. Turn your energies to productive ends, Miss Sullivan, and I am certain you will surely amaze us all."  
  
She laughed. "Damn, I ain't amazin', Ezra. I'm just a poor ignorant gal tryin' to make somethin' useful outta herself."  
  
Ezra's gaze traveled up the street, to finally fix on the the six other men who had paused in the street to wait for him. JD had turned back to call after Ezra, then seeing that he was talking to Pony, gave him a small wave and turned back.  
  
Ezra smiled and turned his eyes to Pony, their green depths shining with deep emotion. "And I am just a wandering gambler, my dear," he replied, "but I believe there may yet be hope for us both."  
  
  
The inebriated crowd at Digger Dan's was in full throat later that evening, as the drunken denizens unwelcome at the town's other saloons found shelter beneath Dan's rough–hewn roof. As the seedier members of the community drank, traded filthy jokes, and drank some more, Ezra sat at a corner table, watching it all with unseeing eyes as he contemplated his future.   
  
Several times he turned away offers of a card game, or more friendly solicitations from the ill–looking working girls. He wanted time alone to think.  
  
So much had happened since he'd last sat here, he thought as he sipped sparingly at the shot of whiskey in his hand. Then, his heart had been full of bitter anger, his only thought that of fleeing the pain by leaving the town and the other men behind forever. He never would have believed then that he would come back, nursing wounds borne in the name of the friendship he had tried so hard to deny. But then, it had been a pretty unbelievable journey.  
  
He placed the drink back down, and glanced at the doors, thinking of Nathan. Their last meeting here was full of harsh words, ending in mutual discord. Even after being rescued from the desert, Ezra had felt sure he could never be fully at ease with Nathan again, a feeling he knew Nathan shared.   
  
And yet, in that moment where he was in peril of falling, it was Nathan who had reached out to save him, and Ezra had accepted the help without anger or revulsion. It was almost instinctual; there had been no time to think about past grievances. Ezra had been in trouble, Nathan helped him, and Ezra had trusted him enough to reach out for and accept his help. In the end it had really been very simple, and yet few things stirred him as profoundly as this.  
  
Perhaps that was it, Ezra thought as he pulled out his cards and began to shuffle them idly. He was still very sore and stiff, but his fingers remained as nimble as ever, and the cards blurred as they danced back and forth in a soft, hypnotic rhythm.   
  
JD had said earlier that Ezra should have trusted them enough to tell them his problems, an action Ezra had dismissed as weakness. But Ezra could find no weakness in that moment in which he and Nathan had reached out for each other; rather, it seemed to him to be a moment of strength, one whose nature he still didn't fully understand. It had been a signal of apology and forgiveness, and far from feeling diminished by it, he felt liberated. Perhaps he could learn to fully trust these rough men he now rode with, and accept that theirs was an association created out of more than mere circumstance. A soft smile lit his pale face; it would be most interesting to see how this experiment unfolded.  
  
He lifted his head and glanced around the room with a sigh. He truly loathed the company at Digger Dan's, but he had not yet screwed up the courage to try and return to the Standish Tavern. There were still too many painful memories there, the wounds from its loss were still too fresh. His dream had been denied, and it would still be a long time before he would be rich enough to realize them again. The other men would never patronize a place like Dan's, but surely they would understand why Ezra simply couldn't bear to enter his former establishment just yet.  
  
He sighed and reached for his drink, wondering if he should just head over to Virginia's and turn in. He was feeling very tired.  
  
"Hey, mister, this seat taken?"  
  
Startled, Ezra looked up with wide green eyes, the drink forgotten. There before him stood Nathan, a small, slightly nervous smile on his face.  
  
The gambler stared for a moment at Nathan, then shook himself. "Indeed not. Make yourself at home."  
  
The healer nodded and sat down, looking around. "Little rough 'round the edges, ain't it?"  
  
Ezra finally got hold of his drink and hoisted it to his lips with a sarcastic glint in his eyes. "An apt description, Mr. Jackson, though I have hope that its denizens may discover the art of bathing soon." He swallowed the drink. "What brings you to this charming corner of town?"  
  
Nathan looked back at him, a slightly hesitant look on his face. "Got somethin' t'say that kinda got lost last time I was here. Figured I best come an' try again."  
  
Ezra's expression grew serious. "You have my full attention."  
  
The healer looked down, cleared his throat, then lifted his eyes to meet Ezra's. "Just wanted to say, I'm sorry for what happened with your saloon. I let my pride do the talkin' when I worked with your ma, an' it ain't caused nothin' but grief. An' when I came here t'talk to you that night..." He paused and shook his head. "I ain't proud of what I said then, either."  
  
Ezra said nothing for a few moments, then drew a deep breath as he squarely faced his comrade. "I was not on my best behavior at the time as well, Mr. Jackson. I would also like to offer my apologies, and a proposal that we put this entire unpleasant matter behind us and turn our thoughts instead to the future."  
  
Nathan smiled, clearly relieved. "I'll drink to that."  
  
Ezra winced. "Not here, I'd suggest. The quality of liquor is truly appalling."  
  
"Well, come on back to the Standish Tavern then," Nathan urged quietly. "You know the stuff they serve there is good, an' Inez sure misses you."  
  
There was sad hesitation in Ezra's eyes as he looked down at the table. "She is a remarkable woman, but...I still find the idea of entering that business rather..distasteful."  
  
Nathan nodded, understanding in his eyes. "I know. Well, we'll be waitin' for you, you know that."  
  
Ezra sighed. "It may be a long wait, my friend."  
  
Nathan smiled a little. "Well, long as the Judge keeps us on, I reckon we got the time."  
  
"Hey there, is this where the big poker game's at?"  
  
It was Buck's voice, strong and boisterous. Ezra felt a wave of amazement sweep over him as the tall gunslinger strode towards his table, closely followed by JD and Josiah. There was a general bustle as they all found seats at the table.  
  
"Gentlemen, you're far afield tonight," Ezra said in a tone of bewilderment as they settled in.  
  
"Things got kinda dull across town, thought we'd drop by," Josiah said with a grin as he leaned back.  
  
"Yeah, I ain't never been in here, thought I'd see what I was missin'," JD said brightly as he thumped his bowler hat on the table. At that moment a beer bottle whizzed by behind his head, crashing against a nearby wall.  
  
"Another few inches in the other direction, son, and you would have found out," Ezra observed. He studied their group. "Shall we make reservations for Chris and Vin as well?"  
  
Buck sniffed. "Naw. Vin went out ridin', an' Chris ain't in the mood for company."  
  
The gambler's expression turned wistful; they all knew that Vin had a hard decision to make, and he nodded. "I see. Well, let us hope Vin decides to remain in our august company. He has suffered enough of a loss, as it is."  
  
Josiah nodded. "I've been prayin' that he be guided to the right path, Ezra, but in the end it's up to him. But he knows he'll always have six souls watchin' out for 'im, no matter where he goes." He looked at Ezra and smiled. "Just like you."  
  
Ezra felt strong emotion threaten his composure. "Please, no maudlin sentimentalities, Josiah. I don't believe I have the strength for it."  
  
"Now, Ezra," Buck said seriously, folding his hands and leaning forward to address the gambler more closely, "Pony told us some of what you been through, an' we mean t'let you know how obliged we are to you for it. Least you can do is hush up an' take it like a man."  
  
Ezra stared at him, surprised and a little curious. "My apologies," he finally said softly. "Pray continue."  
  
"She said you had a chance t'get out of what they done to you, an' you didn't take it cause then we'd get killed," Nathan said, studying Ezra closely.  
  
"An' that it was you that fired that gun an' warned us when they tried to jump me in the desert," JD continued. "That was really somethin', Ezra. You saved my life, an' I won't forget that."  
  
"We know we done you some wrongs that might be hard to forgive, Ezra," Josiah added in a hushed tone, eying the gambler steadily with his blue eyes, "but we hope you know how grateful we are for what you went through t'save our skins, an' how proud we are right now to be your friends."  
  
A long silence filled the air, during which Ezra found himself unable to speak. He could only stare at the table, the powerful emotion returning. It was almost the same as the sensation which had consumed him when he was lying wounded in the desert, agonizing over the bond he had felt was gone for good. But now instead of mourning, the feeling was one of deep joy, that the bond was not only still intact but stronger than it had been before. Perhaps it would endure forever. But for now, he was grateful just for this night.  
  
"Gentlemen," he said at last, in a soft, slightly choked voice, "I am...certainly moved by this show of comradeship. I assure you that any grievances between us have been forgotten, and–" He took a deep breath and lifted his eyes to look at them, a smile brightening his green eyes as his voice became firmer, "–when I reclaim the Standish Tavern–as I promise you I will–the first round of drinks will be on me."  
  
Buck laughed and slapped the table. "Now that's a maudlin sentimentality I can live with any day! Cut them cards an' let's have a game."  
  
The other men relaxed and laughed. Ezra met the eyes of each in turn; JD appeared beside himself with relief, Josiah and Nathan pleased as well. Ezra felt a pleasant calm settle over his soul; it was as if a huge weight had lifted from his shoulders. He had not been this happy in a very long time.  
  
"How's the whiskey here, Ezra?" Josiah asked as he reached for the bottle and a glass.  
  
Ezra placed his hand on Josiah's arm, stopping him. "A step below turpentine, I fear, Josiah." He thought for a moment, then very slowly rose and picked up his hat. "May I suggest we take our game to the Standish Tavern?"  
  
The other men sat silent for a moment, surprised.  
  
"You sure, Ezra?" Nathan finally asked warily.  
  
Ezra's manner grew more confident as he straightened his hat and pulled down his vest with a firm jerk. "Quite sure, Mr. Jackson."  
  
"But I thought you didn't like goin' in there no more," JD observed with a puzzled frown.  
  
Ezra looked at them all and thought, But now I will not be going in there alone. But he was not ready to voice this notion aloud, even now. Perhaps someday.  
  
Instead, he said, with equal truth, "She has been without her true and future owner long enough, JD. It is time we became reacquainted. Shall we proceed?"  
  
The other men rose with smiles of anticipation, and they all filed out of the dim and dirty saloon without looking back. Ezra was the last to leave, but he did not spare the dark home of the past a second glance. He was moving on to a brighter place, and his thoughts were filled only with hope for the future and the imperfect men he would share it with.  
  
He could hardly wait.  
  
  
  
The twilight wind was biting as Chris guided his horse along the rocky desert path. He had been riding a long time and was very tired, but still felt as if he hadn't been out nearly long enough. His mind was churning over the events just past, and those which could lay ahead. Neither subject had been pleasant.  
  
As Valor stepped skillfully among the small rocks and scrubby cactus, Chris mused on the few weeks just past. It was some comfort to know, at least, that the demons within him had been tamed, that he was not still a heartless killer. The temptation had definitely been there, but he had found the strength from somewhere to wrench aside its burning grasp and turn away. Perhaps that power had come from his memories of Sarah, perhaps from his friendship with the other men, he didn't know. It was there–that was all he needed, for now.  
  
His leg twinged; he winced and rubbed it, wondering when the pain would stop. Not for a long time, he thought with a grim smile, if this bullet wound was like the others he'd suffered. A long reminder of the fight they had faced, and the hard victories won. And what was lost.  
  
He reached the top of a rise overlooking the desert and reined in. The sun was setting now, the sky ablaze with brilliant golds and pinks, glowing and glorious. Chris sat and just watched for a moment, trying to let the beauty calm his heart. If only he knew what the next day would bring.  
  
A horse nickered nearby. Chris tensed as he looked along the cliff and saw a figure seated some distance away, watching the sun set as he had been doing. Recognition set in, and he spurred his horse forward, hoping the figure would find his company welcome.  
  
Vin sat on the rim of the cliff, back against a rock, hat off as his long curls danced in the cool breath of the desert dusk. He didn't turn his head as Chris rode up, which did not surprise Chris at all.  
  
"You out ridin'?" Vin asked as he watched the sun sink towards the mountains.  
  
Chris climbed down and walked slowly forward. "Seemed like a good idea."  
  
The tracker slowly nodded. "Yeah, always good for thinkin'." He laughed. "I been doin' so much of that my head's about to bust."  
  
Chris sighed as he crouched next to Vin. "You got a lot to think about."  
  
There was a pause, and Vin nodded. "Yeah, I did." He turned to face Chris. "An' I made up my mind, Chris. I ain't leavin'."  
  
Great relief flooded through Chris's soul, followed closely by concern. He ducked his head for a moment to check the emotion twitching his cheek, then lifted his head to look at his friend. "Have to say I'm glad, Vin. We sure need you."  
  
Vin smiled and went back to the sunset. "You fellers ain't bad to have around in a fight neither." He sighed, his blue eyes reflecting an inner sadness. "Wish I knew the townfolk'll be safe, if anyone comes for me. But I just figured leavin' would only mean breakin' my duty to you all, an' least if I stick around I can help protect 'em when they need it."  
  
"We'll take care of them," Chris promised.  
  
Vin nodded. "I know." He looked at Chris somberly. "I ain't ready to give it all up yet. Somethin's tellin' me it just wouldn't be right."  
  
Chris sat down. "I'm glad you listened to that voice, Vin. With the railroad comin' in, things'll be gettin' tougher. Reckon then this town'll find a use for all of us."  
  
There was slight movement as Vin nodded his head. The sun touched the mountains and began to slide behind it, its fiery brilliance crowning the peaks before disappearing.  
  
"I'm damn sorry about Yates, Vin," Chris said finally as the sunlight began to fade.   
  
Vin shook his head. "Maybe you don't have to be, Chris. I ain't so sure he's dead."  
  
Chris's eyes widened a bit as he looked at his friend. "He was a stubborn son of a bitch, Vin, but I ain't so sure he was that stubborn."  
  
The fringe on Vin's jacket flapped a little as he shrugged. "You didn't find no body, an' one of the horses that belonged to Eli's gang disappeared before we left. Can't help but wonder if he got outta that river somewhere an' rode off."  
  
Chris thought about this. "He sure wasn't in any shape to go far."  
  
"There's little farms an' ranches thereabouts," Vin said softly, as if thinking aloud. "I know it sounds crazy to think on, but..." His voice trailed off, and he looked at Chris. "My gut tells me he's alive, Chris. An' if he is, soon as we're through here I'm goin' down there t'find 'im."  
  
With a final flicker of red–gold light, the sun slid behind the distant hills, lighting the sky with a blazing mural of color in its final throes. In that light, Chris studied the face of his friend, the still–healing bruises and pale skin contrasted with the determination burning in those blue eyes.  
  
Finally he nodded. "It does sound crazy," he admitted, "but I've seen crazier things happen out here."  
  
Vin sighed and shook his head as the clouds overhead began to lose some of their fiery color. "Lord, me too. An' a lot of it's been since I hooked up with you, Larabee." He picked up his hat and stood. "Hope I don't regret decidin' to stay around."  
  
"You won't," Chris promised. "Least we can promise you won't get bored."  
  
Vin laughed a little. "Ain't worried about that."  
  
They began to walk back to where the horses were tethered.  
  
"Reckon you'll need another pair of eyes to find Yates?" Chris asked.  
  
Vin smiled, kicking at the ground as they walked. "At least, if he's as shifty as he was time around."  
  
"You know you got my help," Chris replied as they mounted up. "An' maybe more, if we all get out of this job alive."  
  
Vin settled in his saddle and picked up the reins, glancing overhead as the stars began to slowly pierce the shrouding light of day. "I'm thinkin' we will, Chris. Even Ezra'd make that bet."  
  
Chris laughed. "Yeah, he would. Sure surprised us all, didn't he? Got a lot of grit under all them fancy duds."  
  
Vin nodded as they began to move out, the horses' hooves clopping slowly on the hard ground. "Yup. Man can find a lot of strength t'fight, when it's somethin' worth fightin' for. Guess Ezra found that, whatever it was."  
  
No words were spoken for a few moments as they rode along.  
  
"Maybe we all have," Chris finally said softly.   
  
Vin glanced over at his friend and smiled slightly in agreement.  
  
Chris grinned back and gathered up the reins. "Now let's get on home."  
  
They began to trot over the rough, rocky terrain, the sandy soil crunching rhythmically beneath their horses' hooves as they rode. A soft blue glow filtered over the desert as night reclaimed its domain. The stars began to pepper the azure sky, their brilliance reflected in the torches and fires of Four Corners as it lay in the distance before them. The small orange points of light lay ready to guide them home, to the five other men who shared their destiny, and they rode forward allowing no more cares to burden their hearts. The past had been settled in its place, and tomorrow's trials and hardships would take care of themselves. They would face those trials together, which was all any of them really needed to know.  
  
And for tonight, it was enough.  
  
THE END  
  
Thanks for reading!! Feedback is always appreciated!!  
  
Sue :)


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